


The Voice of John Watson

by Tiofrean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood, Drug Use, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Character Death, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mystery, Nightmares, PTSD, Slash, descriptions of abuse, descriptions of violence, mentions of character's death, mentions of past sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 03:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/731197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John goes missing, Sherlock goes mad. The fog of mystery is growing red with blood... Rating and tags may go higher in the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the dark

**Author's Note:**

> So, I started it a long time ago (somewhere around the summer of 2012), and I sort of abandoned it in the favor of drawing and other fics. Now I have almost finished it (the last chapter is missing), so I decided to post it here. Maybe I'll twist plot somehow with your help :) 
> 
> I wish I could say more about the tags, but it would reveal too much of a story if I did. Therefore, I will not. If you are trigger-happy for violence, gore and torture, or if you are homofobic, then here is where your journey ends. If not, be my guest, but remember, it's going to be a quite dark fic. (I can be much more terrifying, I assure you)
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> ...also, I'm not a native speaker, I study American English, so the probability of mistakes and un-britishness is quite high. Don't hesitate to point out my mistakes.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't a patient man. He was impulsive, restless, fidgety and fussing. He would shout at people, when their idiocy became unbearable, he would go away from a crime scene when there was nothing more to do. He wasn't a patient man. This morning was the day, when the peak of his nervousness had been reached. And it was one big bad news for the world...

That morning Sherlock received an interesting and highly disturbing call from Lestrade. Well, disturbing is really an understatement. Sherlock Holmes, after answering the call today's morning, was furious. And scared. Scared as he has never been in his entire life. Because what can be more scaring than taking the only man you truly care about to some godforsaken place, to do whatever the kidnapper's twisted mind has in store? 

Sherlock cursed mentally and looked at the streets that were flashing behind the window of a black, London's cab. All those funny little people with their funny little brains, trying to solve their funny little problems... God, there were thousands of them out there. Thankfully, there were no traffic jams today and he could arrive at New Scotland Yard in no time. He paid the cab-man and rushed directly to Lestrade's office. On his way down the corridor he passed few policemen, stupid-as-hell Anderson and irritating-as-the-devil-himself Donnovan, who, naturally, used the chance to call him “a freak”. Again. Sherlock just scowled at them and entered the office of DI Lestrade without as much as a single knock to the door. The DI himself was sitting in his usual pose, in his usual chair by his usual desk. Just another usual day... or wasn't it?

Greg looked at him with blank face, but very soon Sherlock deduced his mental state. Slight perspiration on the forehead, jaw set, pupil widened, right hand clenching a pen with too much force. Conclusion: highly nervous. Possibilities: bad news, troublesome information.  
“Lestrade” The detective looked at him with his most demanding glare. He wanted the truth. The whole truth. And he wanted it now.  
“Sherlock, take a sit, please” The DI pointed at the chair opposite to his. Sherlock didn't even flinch, still glaring at Lestrade. “Okay, as you want. But I must warn you that it can be painful for you. It was for me, and I don't know John as much as you do...” Nope, not usual then.  
“Lestrade...” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, still standing and looking expectedly at the man. His feelings towards John were nobody's concern. Well, in the greater part they weren't even Sherlock's concern. The detective was so inexperienced when it came to this department that he left all the “emotional” stuff to John. Greg sighed and clicked something on his laptop, then he turned the portable speakers on. Sherlock froze, listening to his dear friend's voice. 

“No don't! Wait! What are you... Stop!” Came the male voice. Sherlock's eyes widened in horror as he recognized the voice instantly... John. Oh God, John... He closed his eyes when the second voice appeared on the recording.  
“Don't scream, my dear. You won't live long enough to feel your throat sore, but I will be alive tomorrow and I still want my ears to be good...” Moriarty. Sherlock felt his whole frame trembling as the blind rage bubbled in his guts.  
“Don't do this!” Came the John-like voice again. In his mind, Sherlock still refused to think about this voice as his friend's. This couldn't be happening, he wanted John to be good, he needed him to be good. And safe. Preferably good and safe with Sherlock on his side. Sherlock held his breath when he heard the next phrase in this sing-song voice:  
“Oh, those plain jumpers of yours... I'm sure you'll look better in red. What would you say about the blood shade of it? You'll look beautiful!” And then Sherlock shuddered violently, shutting his eyes tightly. He heard a high-pitched scream, as this madman hurt John. His John. The detective's skin had gone cold as ice in less than a blink of an eye. He slumped down on the chair, for his knees suddenly felt too weak to keep him standing.  
“Yes, scream! That's right!” And the screaming continued for a couple of minutes, but for Sherlock it felt more like hours. Hours filled with horrible pain.  
“Please, stop it! Please...”  
“Oh... I will stop for now. I don't want to torture our favourite detective too fast...” There was a sound of door being opened and closed and this cruel, half singing voice appeared again. “Sherlock, just to make it possible for you to imagine today's events, I'll tell you that I carved beautiful, chess board pattern on your pet's skin. You should see it honey, it's truly beautiful!” And with that the recording ended. 

Lestrade shut the lid of his laptop quietly, looking with worry at the detective, who was sitting silently, eyes shut tight, jaw set, his whole frame trembling. The DI really wanted to help him, but he could do nothing. His team tried to trace the ID address of the sender, or find him in any other way, but they failed. The encrypting protocol was too complicated for them to break it. He told this to the detective, along with all the necessary information. But it still was too little to help  
Sherlock do anything. 

“He wants me to suffer. He will hurt John to get to me. To make me feel pain and guilt...” And to drive me crazy. To loose my mind... Sherlock gulped and lowered his head into his palms, his whole form trembling. Lestrade was horrified to see this incredibly proud and strong man like that. Suddenly he felt even worse, when he saw, how the detective leaned forward, his breath hitching, his shoulders shaking.  
After some time, Sherlock took hold of this emotions, straighten himself and looked at the Detective Inspector. It was all that took him to stay calm.  
“I have to find John and get him out of there. Lestrade... help me, please” he looked at Greg seriously, desperation clear in his pale eyes. Lestrade closed his own eyes briefly, wishing he could make things right. He knew, however, that it won't be easy. On the contrary, it will be difficult as hell. But he promised himself when he had heard the recording for the first time, that he'll do everything to help John. After all the man was his friend as well and he cared about him, even though he rarely showed it.  
“Sherlock we'll do our best. You know it, don't you?”  
“It may not be enough, Lestrade!” Sherlock snapped suddenly, anger and pain taking hold on him. “I have to get him out of there, Moriarty... He will hurt him, I know it... God...” Sherlock looked away and blinked furiously, trying to keep his tears at bay. Lestrade leaned forward over his desk and looked at the detective with concern.  
“We have to wait. He will contact us again and this will hopefully provide some data...”  
“Hopefully, John would be still alive at that time!” Sherlock growled sarcastically, his tears finally making their way down his cheeks. He brushed them away angrily with the back of his hand, clearly embarrassed, but too concerned and pained to pay any attention to his mind's state. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sherlock knew that the Detective Inspector won't think less about him, even if he cried a river. Lestrade had pulled him out of much worse troubles and if he didn't back away then, he won't back away now.  
“Sherlock. Calm down. I know it's hard, it's hard for me, too...”  
“For you? Why?” Sherlock cut in snapping, and it was all that it took for Lestrade to not slap the detective across his face. Instead he spoke softly, willing himself to sound calm.  
“I care about him, too. He is my friend, you know it. And a good man.” My good man, Sherlock thought. He was terrified beyond thinking and he desperately needed to think. Now.  
“Sorry.”  
“It's okay, I understand. Do you need anything?” Yeah, I need John, Sherlock thought bitterly, but instead, he just asked Greg about cigarettes. The older man fished into the drawer of his desk with his right hand and, without a word, handed him a pack of posh, black cigarettes. Not his, this is obvious...  
“Keep them” Greg said, his voice calm, but the detective heard anger and fear in it. Sherlock nodded “thank you” and rose from his chair, heading outside. Before he left, he turned slightly to the DI, wanting to say something, but struggling for words.  
“Greg...” He paused, not knowing how to formulate his thoughts, wanting to say everything that was currently running through his mind. Please, help me find him, help me keeping him safe after this nightmare comes to the end... Thank you for telling me, thank you for being so calm, for not judging me, for accepting my care about John... Thank you for being here, for helping me, for fighting with me... Instead he just closed his eyes. Somehow Greg knew, what the sleuth was thinking, and opened his mouth first.  
“Don't. He is my friend as well. Go, take a drag, calm yourself down a bit. Then we'll try to work it out” he tried to smile, but failed.

Sherlock just nodded, grateful that he didn't have to say all of his thoughts. He was never good with emotions. In fact he started to know them, to learn them and truly feel them, when John entered his life. At first it was just pride and happiness, when John prised him after their first case together.  
To say the truth, he was surprised that John had found his deductions worth prising. Sherlock himself always thought that his reasoning was just his work, nothing remarkable, nothing worth anyone's attention. People called him “freak” and always pushed him aside, never considering his mind as something uncommon, something great or beautiful. But your mind is beautiful, Sherlock. The detective cursed silently, remembering John's words. He was now outside the New Scotland Yard, trying to lit a cigarette. His lighter, however, was incredibly stubborn and he couldn't even get a tiniest flame from it. Irritated, he thrown it across the street, growling with restrained anger and frustration. 

“Hey mate, maybe I can help you?” Sherlock heard a young voice behind his left shoulder. He spun around to find a short, blonde man, looking at him with frown, holding out a cheap, plastic lighter. Sherlock took it, murmuring “thank you” and sinking into his thoughts lit the cigarette. Vanilla flavoured, fine tobacco. Interesting.  
He had barely finished, taking the last drag of the dizzying smoke into his lungs when his phone beeped. He threw the stub into ashtray and fished his phone out of his coat's left pocket. He unlocked it just to see a message from Lestrade. 

My office. Quickly – GL

Panting heavily after the quick run among the corridors of Yard, Sherlock entered Lestrade's office. Sick-looking and pale, with closed eyes, the DI was sitting in his chair, a small, heavy-looking wooden box in front of him. African wood, old, probably over 50 years... or more.  
“What is it?” The detective asked, coming closer to the desk, looking curiously at the box.  
“It was delivered here by a postman, has been sent to Scotland Yard's address. This was attached to it” Lestrade handed Sherlock white card with text written neatly on it. Cheap paper, mass production. Message written with fountain pen, exclusive one, very expensive, blue ink, dried with powder.

A gift to remind you, how much you miss him. - JM

Sherlock shifted his gaze from the card to Lestrade, then back to the card. He put it aside and, with trembling hands, lifted the small box from the polished surface off the desk. He saw rather than felt a pair of hands closing on his wrists. Sherlock looked up just to see, that Lestrade was moving his lips, saying something. He had to concentrate hard in attempt to hear.  
“...don't Sherlock. Don't open the...” But the detective didn't listen. He fidgeted a little with the lock at the front and carefully lifted the lid. His eyes gone wild, his breath stopped and his mouth fell open. Greg has never, not even once, in his entire life seen Sherlock in such mix of shock, panic and undeniable fear. 

“No!” The detective howled and jumped slightly back. Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing heavily, feeling violent shudders rocking his body. Fear was mixing with nausea inside his guts. After a few seconds, however, he managed to put on his usual, not impressed face, looking straight forward, his expression perfectly blank. Lestrade, seeing his quick exchange of masks, couldn't believe this man's self control. Only a tiny twitch on those full lips and ragged breathing revealed what he had seen a few seconds before. He silently circled his desk and walked up to Sherlock, putting a hand on the detective's shoulder. It was only then when he felt exactly how tense Sherlock's body was.  
“It's John's” the younger man stated quietly. His legs were weak and it was all it took for Sherlock to walk out of the building without collapsing on the floor in the corridor.

Smoking fifth cigarette in a row, Sherlock still tried to get rid of the image invading his head. Finger. The second finger of John's left hand. Cut at the base with something much like saw. Certainly not with something sharp, what caused a lot of pain. Blood flew from open veins, dripping down the fingertip. John screamed aloud... 

Stop. Delete it. Blood coagulated... Screamed in pain... 

Stop. Again. Blood coagulated in a deep red pool on the floor beneath John... 

Stop it, for God's sake! Focus! 

But he couldn't. Every time he wanted to formulate a coherent thought, his mind was helplessly drowning in the images of suffering John, of his screams, moans, of his winces of pain, of his eyes shutting tightly closed. Caring is not an advantage. Finishing his sixth cigarette, Sherlock took out his phone and dialed the number. 

Come on, I need you...

First signal.

...it is a matter of life and death...

Second signal.

...as much John's as mine...

Third signal.

Just pick the sodding phone up!

“I hope that you have a rather important problem, because calling me in the middle of the conference of national-importance is highly inappropriate, brother dear.”  
“I need you.”  
“What have you done now?” Sherlock heard the annoyed tone of his brother's and bit his tongue to not say anything insulting. He could picture his brother rolling his eyes and giving an annoyed look.  
“It's John” he said, his voice trembling.  
“Don't tell me you made him furious with your insufferable self and now want me to apologize for you...”  
“Moriarty took him” Sherlock bit his lips. There was a short silence on the other end of the line. “Mycroft?”  
“Half an hour. I'm already on my way” he said quickly, his voice deadly serious. Sherlock hang up and lit another cigarette.


	2. The hope still lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty is in play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the lovely people who commented and kudoed on this work. I love you! <3 
> 
> Watch out for more violence and mentions of character death. There will be some mentions of slash, but the exact one is still to come :) 
> 
> Enjoy, and as always, let me know what is wrong and what is right with this work :)

When, exactly 29 minutes later, Sherlock opened the door to 221B Baker Street, his older brother greeted him from the kitchen. Sherlock took off his coat, went to one of the cupboards and took out small, white cup. John's favorite, he thought with a smirk, before pouring himself tea. Then he turned around and looked at Mycroft with perfectly blank expression. Mycroft shifted in his chair, his umbrella sliding slightly along his leg.

“What happened?”  
“I told you, Moriarty took John” Sherlock almost snapped.  
“Care to share any details, or do you expect me to become telepathic?” Mycroft frowned, Sherlock scowled.  
“He didn't came back from the shop yesterday. I thought that maybe he went to visit his parents, because Harry is having one of her bad periods... again. But then he didn't came home in the morning neither...” Sherlock gulped, putting his tea down on the table. He stuffed his hands into his trousers' pockets.  
“And?”  
“...today's morning Lestrade received an e-mail...”  
“Show me.”

As the recording ended, Mycroft looked curiously at his younger brother, his mind racing. Sherlock was so worried it was showing all over him, though he tried to hide it. Well, maybe to some other people he would look like his usual offending self, but his elder brother could read him like an open book. Fear, confusion, pain, hurt, uncertainty, stress... Oh, Sherlock...

“It's not all, is it?” The British Government raised his eyebrow questioningly. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and tried to regulate his breathing, which had suddenly became shallow and quick, leaving him on the edge of hyperventilating.   
“He's sent John's finger to Scotland Yard” he stated, his voice calm, but his lower lip trembled softly. He bit it hard in attempt to stop it from moving unintentionally.   
“Sherlock, I'll do my best to find him. I'll copy the data from your... erm, from John's laptop and I'll get my men to do their duties as quick as humanly possible. Now, you should get yourself some sleep, for when we find John, he could use your help. And to provide it properly, you have to be strong.”  
“Mycroft... I...” Sherlock was struggling to find the right words. He was not used to thank anyone for anything.  
“No need to, you are my brother. And I know how much you care about doctor Watson” Mycroft stood up and looked at his brother softly. Sherlock's mind was screaming thousands of words, but only a few managed to escape his mouth as a weak, whispered plea.  
“Find him, Mycroft... I can't... I... please, find him and deal with that psycho.” Mycroft just nodded at this. Then he rose from his chair, looked seriously at the deadly pale detective and finally spoken.  
“He will pay for this. Sherlock, eat something, sleep a little. If I have anything, I'll call you...” And with that he was gone. Sherlock looked around himself, deciding quickly that he didn't need the food on the first place. It was only afternoon, he could go on without eating a little more. The detective headed to his bedroom, slumped on the bed and tried to wish himself into sleep.

Having spent two hours tossing around in his bed, Sherlock got out of it and went to the living room, grabbing John's laptop on his way. He opened it, typed the password and, in a blink of an eye, logged into his own e-mail box. He opened the message from Lestrade - the one containing the hated recording - and clicked the play button. He listened to it carefully, pausing it at times to take mental notes. When the recording ended he had only one conclusion. Something was wrong with it. But yet, he couldn't figure out what it was. He spent the next couple of hours searching through the internet, sunk deep in his thoughts.  
Sherlock heard a beeping in his coat's pocket. He fished his mobile out of it and read the message.

Got new recording. - GL

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and quickly clicked the replay. 

What is it? - SH

You better see yourself. - GL

On my way. - SH

It took Sherlock exactly twenty two minutes to get to the Yard. Thank God, no traffic jams in the night. He paid the cab man as quickly as humanly possible (and probably gave him a horrendous tip, but he didn't really pay attention to it) and entered the building with quick, long strides. He headed straight to Lestrade's office and when he reached it, he entered without knocking. Gregory was awaiting him, his face stone, his eyes hard and jaw set. Sherlock look at him, eyes scanning, brain making quick deductions. The detective took the seat opposite and waited with blank expression. Lestrade looked him up and down, sighed and pushed the play button. Sherlock's eyes widened in horror. 

The voice on the recording was so broken and strained that the words were barely recognizable. The detective, however, made out every single word.

“What do you want?”  
“You know what I want Johnny boy... Scream for me!”

Sherlock winced at the second phrase. He and John used it in an entirely different situation with an entirely different meaning... Now it was... 

“Wait... a hammer? Really? Don't.... Noooo!” 

Sherlock closed his eyes as the voice on the tape shouted out in pain. The screaming went on, making the detective shudder and tremble. His breathing became ragged and his fists clenched tightly, resting in his pockets. His eyes opened abruptly when he heard the sing-song voice of John's captor.

“Come on, Johnny. I have already broken your both hands...”  
“No!” A shout.  
“...but I still want to do something with your legs... You know that I like your legs, right?”  
“What?” A low moan.  
“I would rather get between them. Oh, you'd like that Johnny... Wouldn't you?” Next low moan and and then sounds of struggling.  
“Get away from me!”  
“Oh, no need to be shy here... I'm sure our favorite consulting detective wouldn't mind if I used his little pet...”

Sherlock closed his eyes once again. If that bastard touched John in this way, I'm going to kill him. Well, I'm going to kill him anyway, but if he did something like this to John I'm going to kill him slowly. He gulped a big one, trying to get his breathing under control. All this time Lestrade was watching him closely. He really was impressed by this man's self-control. 

“So what now, Johnny? Would you like to play a game?” A low moan, quickly followed by a scratchy sound of tearing something. “Good. I bet you know this one, you're an ex-army soldier, after all. So, I ask a question, and you answer it.”   
“Mmmm mm mmmm mmm...”   
“Oh, I know it would be hard with that tape over your mouth, but you have to try. How to put it... your life depends on it” and Moriarty laughed like the devil himself. 

Sherlock looked at Lestrade in horror, his eyes big and fogged with fear. The recording went on.

“First question, Johnny boy. What do you think, how would Sherlock react to a footage from our little chat?”  
“Mmmm, mmm mmm mmm!”  
“Bad answer.” 

Sherlock jolted violently, his eyes gone wild. He heard one, single shot. And then a moan. God, no... John! He felt, as if his heart was going to burst, the heartbeat loud in his ears. He desperately wanted to hear another moan. The sound that would tell Sherlock John is still alive. Instead he heard the cold, snake like voice. Moriarty.

“Don't you worry, Sherlock. Your little pet is still alive, though he can have problems with walking again...” 

Sherlock reached and pressed pause button, then he quickly fished his phone, taping a message with his trembling fingers. 

Whatever game you were playing, you won. What do you want? - SH

He cursed under his breath, sending the text and waiting impatiently for the replay. He couldn't believe this. His brave, brilliant doctor was held by a madman, who hurt him. The detective felt his mind racing, trying to figure out next steps. He had to find John. Now. Where could he be? Oh, why London was so huge... Finding him could take months, years even. 

No! 

Sherlock shook his head forcefully, trying to shake off his disturbing thoughts. I will find him in no time. I have to. Think, you idiot, think! But yet, he couldn't. Every time when his thoughts drifted to the recording, trying to figure out what John's location could be, looking for the tiniest of details, he felt himself being drawn up to John's pained screams, low moans and tell-tale gasps. He felt his heart ram inside his chest and became shocked that he actually felt simple human emotions. He shouldn't feel them, he thought. It was dangerous and it always led to situations like this.

His thoughts were interrupted, when he heard the beep of his phone. He looked at the screen, feeling sick.

I told you, I'll burn your heart out. Does this burn enough? - JM

Sherlock swayed slightly. There was a picture attached to the text. The detective forced himself to breath, as he looked down at the photograph. John, clad only in his boxer briefs, was sitting on a chair, tied tightly to it's back. 

John! 

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, then pried them open again. Blood. So much blood on the doctor's chest and thighs. Sherlock couldn't see where the blood came from, there was no visible injury, but his heart screamed at him. There is too much blood for you to even make out the ropes, not to mention the wounds. But then his mind was back in control, trying to make out as much as possible from the tiny picture. John was blindfolded, his lips parted, blood dripping from them in a tiny trickle. The detective suspected that his lips were cut or smashed, but he couldn't tell for sure. John's body was slightly bend, leaning forward, but his muscles were strained, still taut, a clear indication that he was conscious. Good. If I only knew how old is the picture... Sherlock tried to deduce where his friend was seated, but it was difficult even for him. The only indication to the look of the room he was in, was the beam of light falling down at John. It was placed high and it looked naturally, most likely the sunlight. 

He looked at Lestrade and showed him the picture, clenching his fingers around the small, black mobile phone with too much force. Lestrade nodded, unable to form words, clearly shocked at what he saw. Sherlock turned around and left, not wanting to waste more time. He needed to do the research, and he needed it now. On his way home he took out the cigarettes and lit one of them. Familiar, somehow soothing taste of vanilla spread on his taste buds and he inhaled deeply. He reached Baker Street in not time, his mind working hard for the whole walk. As soon as he found himself in his living room he opened up John's laptop and indulged himself in an information-hunt. 

Two hours passed and Sherlock was finally getting somewhere, when his phone beeped. 

Check your box, lovely. - JM

Sherlock logged into his e-mail box and saw new text. His blood froze – it was from Moriarty. He opened it with a frown and found a new recording. He pushed the play and listened to it carefully. At first, there was only deafening silence, then a cool voice told his command. 

“Tell him, John.” 

Then there was more silence. Just when Sherlock wanted to stop the recording and come back to his research, he heard a shuffle and a moan. Something was terribly wrong, for the next thing that appeared was a chocked sob. 

“Goodbye, Sherlock...” 

Then there was a shot. A loud, clean shot. Sherlock stopped breathing, straining his ears to hear something. Anything. But the only thing he heard was the sound of the bullet case landing on the concrete floor. The recording ended and Sherlock could feel as if all his life ended along with it. 

No, no, no, no.... John, not John.... 

But what happened was clear to him, even if he desperately tried not to believe in this. Moving on autopilot he closed the recording, when it came to an end, and sank deeper onto the couch. 

He didn't know for how long he was sitting like this, he didn't care. He didn't feel anything, nor anger, nor despair. He felt numb. And cold... so cold he was actually surprised that he couldn't see his own breath coming out of his mouth. Maybe he wasn't breathing? It was a stupid thought, but in this particular moment the detective felt like a dead man. 

He heard the doorbell ringing out and footsteps coming from the corridor along with Mrs. Hudson's voice. He didn't pay attention to it and he didn't even flinch when someone entered his room. 

“Good God, Sherlock... I'm so sorry...” It was Lestrade's voice, but the detective remained still, clenching his fists in silent furry. He was greatly surprised, because he hadn't noticed that he was angry at all. Now he was shaking with rage, but it felt strange. It was cool, cold as ice... He looked up at Lestrade, really looking at him maybe for the first time this evening. The older man walked to him but stopped dead in his tracks. 

“What?!” Sherlock snapped, his rage finally flowing on the surface.  
“Sorry... I... You aren't aware how do you look like, are you?” At this the dark haired man frowned and stood up from the couch. He strode across the room in quick steps and faced the mirror. “Oh.”

His face was as pale as sheet, his eyes pink and his cheeks wet. He had dark circles under his eyes and his lips were strangely dark. He looked down at his mouth and almost gasped. Blood. Sherlock ran his tongue along his lower lip tasting the metallic redness that gathered there. He must have been biting his lip for the past few hours, because the blood was dried at most places. It pooled in the little grooves on his lips, making almost black marks, completing the horrific sight of his face. He turned around, murmured an excuse to Lestrade and walked slowly to the bathroom. 

When he got out of the tiny room, his hair was still damp, but his face changed. It was lightened from the inside, definitely more colored and the tinniest of glimpses shone in his eyes. He walked quickly past Lestrade and moved to John's laptop, bringing it back to life. Lestrade was sitting on the couch, looking at Sherlock, trying to say something comforting, but failed miserably. What should he tell to a man, who had lost the only person he cared about? But Lestrade wanted to say anything. Somehow he felt responsible for the detective and his well-being. He helped him through his rehab, he has been helping him since then, providing cases - riddles to keep Sherlock's brain working. 

“Sherlock, I'm truly sorry for what happened. If there's anything I could poss...”  
“John is alive” Sherlock stated, his voice certain, while he was looking for the latest recording from Moriarty.   
“What?” Lestrade looked at the detective, his eyes filled with doubt. “Sherlock, we have both heard the recording... I know it's hard, but...” The detective interrupted him.  
“Lestrade. I am almost sure that John is still alive. I don't know where he is or in what condition, but he certainly is alive” and with that he played the recording, feeling Lestrade getting up from the couch and coming closer to the desk. 

“Tell him, John.” 

The recording went on, first the stretching silence, then the shuffling and moan. Sherlock clicked the pause and quickly rewound last ten seconds, before he played it again. Lestrade cursed in his mind, thinking that the detective has finally gone mad. Suddenly the dark haired man jumped from his seat, flying out of the room, putting on his shoes and coat in a hurry.

“Do you still have the finger?” Sherlock threw at the general direction of the living room, where a very surprised Lestrade was still standing.  
“What?”  
“Have you gone deaf when you reached the peak of idiocy or does it really need explaining?” Lestrade bit his tongue at the insult. Part of him was actually relieved that the old Sherlock was back, even if he was a little too sharp this time. “I asked if you still have the finger that madman sent you to the Yard?” Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes, coming back to the living room to collect his mobile phone and a few other things.  
“Yeah, it's still there... Why?”  
“Because I need to get a closer look. I think it's not John's.”  
“How?” The DI asked and Sherlock scowled at him.  
“It should still have a mark on it” the detective walked up to the laptop, rewinding the recording again and playing it, mouthing “listen” to the older man. Lestrade listened to it with difficulty, actually relieved that Sherlock stopped it again in the same place.  
“Did you hear it?” He asked, his voice sure. Lestrade just shook his head “no” and tried to stand the offended look at his friend's face. “Of course you didn't, you're an idiot. John doesn't moan like this” the detective stated, closing the lid with a snap.  
“How could you possibly know?”  
“Trust me, I know exactly how John moans” and with that he was gone, with Lestrade soon following. The older man just murmured something about “madman” and “being on high” but walked with Sherlock to the police car that brought him to Baker Street and headed off to the New Scotland Yard.


	3. Lighting a spark in the night part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little retrospection and romance. Warning for drug use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long so I'll post it in parts. Enjoy and thank you for your support! 
> 
> Also, I have a question. I need to do a questionnaire of sorts. Could you tell me, if you are from US or UK, what idioms containing colors do you use most frequently? And which country are you from, US or UK? It would be a tremendous help to me :)

A few months earlier.

John came back from work early that day. His shift had been shortened, because a few patients called off. He entered the 221B in silence, deep in his thoughts. He came earlier then usual, so he would probably be filled up on a new case. If he gets lucky enough, he may even have a little time to eat a proper dinner before setting out to chase the criminals along the streets of London. He shook his head. No, he would not have even this little time. It was Sherlock, he would want to go out immediately, to solve his puzzle as quickly as possible. John took off his coat and left it on the rack in the corridor. He took off his shoes, wondering why he had done it. He was sure he would have to put them back on again in a few minutes. He shook his head again and entered the kitchen. 

Sherlock was nowhere in the eye sight so John went on with his initial goal. He started the dinner preparations, taking meat out of the fridge. He put the water for pasta and proceeded to make spaghetti sauce. On his way to the kitchen table, he put the kettle on and fished two cups out from the cupboard.   
“Sherlock, do you want some tea?” He shouted in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom, where, he believed, the detective was. No answer came out and John thought that the younger man is again on one of his cases, thinking intensely. Or that he is sulking over the lack of the cases. What he didn't think about, however, was Sherlock's limp body lying on his bed, wrapped up in tangled sheets, convulsing visibly, skin pale and slick with cold sweat.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, crossing the threshold of his bedroom, trying to get to the bed as quickly as it was humanly possible. He wanted to ask Sherlock about the tea and he certainly wasn't expecting to find his friend in such state. When he appeared by the side of the bed, he knelt down and reached his right hand to gently touch the detective's neck at his pulse point. He felt a rapid beating, far too fast for any norms. He quickly went to his room for his medical kit and came back to Sherlock's bed. His friend was shaking like a leaf rocked by a typhoon and John proceeded to untangle him from the bed sheets. After a couple of moments he managed to lay him on his back, the duvet and pillows thrown to the floor. He was greatly surprised, that it affected him so much. John's breathing almost matched Sherlock's in it's rapidness and he heard a loud pounding of his own heart in his ears.

“What the hell have you done, Sherlock?” he asked in trembling voice. Soon, however, he was back in “the doctor Watson mode”, as Sherlock had once put it, and went on with his actions.   
He put his both hands onto the detective's shoulders and squeezed hard, eliciting a moan from Sherlock's lips. John was sure that his hand's would leave bruises on Sherlock's shoulders, but he couldn't care less. He looked seriously into, now wide-open, eyes. John gulped, seeing the wide-blown pupils that had eaten almost every trace of color from this opalescent eyes.  
“Sherlock! What have you taken?” He asked, his voice military, demanding, his face like stone. Sherlock didn't answer, he just started trembling more, now convulsing as in a seizure. John had to think fast.  
“Cocaine?” He tried and sighed in relief when he had seen a small nod. That was quick, thank God. John fished into his medical bag and took out two bottles: diazepam and paracetamol. He gave both to Sherlock and took out the arm cuff to measure the blood pressure. Still high, he'll have to wait a little more. The doctor shook his head. Why had the detective done this? John was almost sure that it wasn't an accident but, as Sherlock would say, it's dangerous to jump to conclusions without acknowledging facts first. To put it simply, John had to save Sherlock's life, so he could kill him with his bare hands later, when he knows exactly what happened.

Almost an hour later Sherlock's breathing and blood pressure were back to normal as well as his heartbeat. The detective himself, however, didn't feel well yet. He was still trembling slightly, half conscious and started to babble something incoherently. John was sitting next to him, checking his vitals, dosing the medications or just holding his friend's hand. At some point John had to fell asleep, because the images, that his brain indulged itself into, were definitely not real. 

Sherlock's unearthly eyes, now nearly black, half closed right beneath him. Sherlock's body squirming, trembling, his nails digging into John's back...

John, jolted out of his short and uncomfortable nap, looked straight into the detective's eyes. Sherlock looked back at him, his tongue poking out to swiftly lick his lips. John observed the pretty, pink muscle slide along Sherlock's upper, then lower lip and retract back into the wet mouth. He shifted his gaze from the younger man's lips to his eyes once again, then he looked away, feeling embarrassed. Sherlock noticed, of course he did.   
“John?” It rally was an innocent question, rather curious than provocative, but sounded like both nonetheless. The man in question shut his eyes, trying to shake the image of Sherlock from his dream out of his head. But he couldn't. 

The detective moaning softly, his plush lips opened and forming a little “o” as he was squirming...

Fuck, this is my colleague, for God's sake! – John told himself in his mind. He blinked a few times, looking away, blushing furiously. Sherlock raised one, elegant eyebrow and tried again, all the way closely observing the doctor.   
“John?”  
“How are you feeling?” Great, change the topic, how original.  
“Better...” Sherlock started but John interrupted him immediately.  
“Good, because I want you healthy and kicking, so I can kill you myself!” He snapped and Sherlock's eyes widened. John was in his battle-mode and he didn't want to receive a rather painful punch to his nose, even though he deserved it.   
“John?”  
“What the fuck was that? Were you planning on killing only yourself or killing me as well?” John was wired up now, speaking a little too loud, his voice trembling with emotions. Well, it was mostly anger, but there was also something, that neither John nor Sherlock could figure out.   
“I didn't... I haven't...”  
“You didn't what exactly? You didn't know what influence would cocaine have on your body?” John growled, Sherlock looked away, his jaw set, features hard.   
“John you weren't supposed to see this, you were supposed to be working.”  
“Yes, but I'm glad that I wasn't. Jesus, Sherlock, why did you take this shit again? Why?!” John heard his own voice but almost didn't recognize it, for it was full of anger.   
“Stop shouting, John. I needed the distraction, and you were away...” And I couldn't ask you to do anything, thought Sherlock.  
“And I was away, so what? You thought that you'll take something, make yourself high just to get down from it five minutes before I appear? It's ridiculous! You could have died, Sherlock!” He stopped here, or his voice would have failed him. Sherlock blinked at John furiously, then turned his head away again. He didn't want to die, not now, when he had a man that cared for him. John took several deep breaths to steady his mind and went on.  
“I was afraid that I had lost you, you idiot. You are my friend, and it scared the shit out of me. When I entered the room you looked like if you were dying... it was horrible. Don't you ever do this again!” Sherlock looked at him seriously.   
“John, if I had wanted to kill myself, I would be dead now. It was an accident, I... I think the dose was too big. That's all” he gulped, feeling his throat tighten. This man really cared about him. He didn't run away from him, he didn't insult him and he really cared about him. Sherlock felt that he had to apologize somehow, because John deserved this. He owed him an apology. This is what normal people do, right? Apologize when they do something bad?   
“John I'm... sorry. I didn't mean to upset you... Forgive me, please” his lips trembled slightly, but he managed to finish what he wanted to say. And he meant it. He had never wanted to cause pain to John. He could be oblivious to everyone else, but not to John.  
“Just promise me that you won't do this again. I don't want to find you dead someday after I came from work” John managed to smile one of his trademark smiles, the “it's okay, though I still want to kill you” one. The detective returned the smile, then he sank in his thoughts for a couple of moments, surprised by his own feelings. Just when John thought about going out to the kitchen to make the tea, his friend spoke.  
“John, I have a question.”  
“Yup?” He thought that it would be a medical or technical one... Well, no such luck, it was Sherlock after all.  
“Are you attracted to me?” Sherlock was deadly serious, and John Watson wished that he would be just dead. Right. Now.  
“Excuse me?” How on earth did he manage to see this? Well, John was thinking about his feelings toward his flat mate since they moved on, but he had always managed to cover this up somehow. Especially knowing that said flat mate considered himself “married to his work” and didn't show any signs of need of deeper relationship. To some point, John was glad that the things between them were as they were, because he hadn't quite gotten over his past, and was seriously afraid that it would interfere with their relationship. 

“Some time before, when you had woken up from your nap, you looked at me... It was different than usual, it was... I don't know how to say it, but it was different. I have seen your angry scowl, your upset look, all sorts of glares and glances, every one of your... stares, but this one was new. And Since only the attraction was left among the not-linked-to-them emotions, then it must have been the case. So, John Watson, are you attracted to me?” The air left John's lungs. Busted, he thought. Freaking genius... In the meantime his cheeks turned five shades of red, settling between “embarrassed” and “caught red-handed”.   
“Why... erm, why do you want to know?” John felt strange. On the one hand he was embarrassed beyond any thought, on the other...   
“I'm just thinking... It's nothing bad, you know.” Sure I know, John thought. It feels great. It would be only better if you would act upon it. Oh hell, what am I thinking? I, most likely, wouldn't be able to indulge myself into being with another man... The things should stay as they are.  
“Sherlock, I...” Ah, to hell with it. He had been caught anyway... and Sherlock is a genius, so maybe, just maybe, it will work?  
“John” the detective started, his face serious. “Would it make any difference if I told you that I have... feelings for you?” At this, John didn't know how to react. He was furious at himself for being so obvious, he was angry at Sherlock for being so goddamn brilliant in his deductions, he was scared that his past would be revealed, what, certainly, will push Sherlock away. John Watson felt like a deer caught in the car lights, his eyes wide and his heart hammering in his chest. He jumped when he felt a cool hand on his knee. Sherlock was looking at him curiously.  
“I said that I have feelings for you, John.” But John said nothing. Instead he just stood up and went to the kitchen, trying to wash away the memory of Sherlock's slim, cool hand brushing his knee.


	4. Lighting a spark in the night part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuing with the past of our boys, or to say better, with John's past, and the way they became partners and lovers... well, mostly :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating is going higher. Mentions and descriptions of past sexual abuse, though not explicit. Nightmares, flashbacks. Sherlock being caring and John being vulnerable. 
> 
> Because I can. 
> 
> For my lovely readers <3

Sherlock's mind was racing when he had seen John standing up and leaving the room, without as much, as a single word. Did he push too much? Maybe John wasn't attracted to him, after all? No, Sherlock thought, he had seen all signs. From John's wide-blown pupils to the slight shudder running through his body, when he touched his leg. Not to mention the increasing in breathing speed and slight perspiration on the forehead. But maybe it was something different? Fear maybe? Well, there would be only one obvious sign that would tell the detective if it was the desire, or the fear. He stood up on slightly shaking legs and made his way to the kitchen. Sherlock found his friend making two cups of tea, bee-lining between the remains of the detective's last failed experiment. He walked up to him and, trying to keep his voice under control, said in a low tone.

“John? I have a question for you.”  
“Hmm?” John tried to sound neutral, but in his mind he was still running over what Sherlock had told him.  
“Well, actually two questions” Sherlock cleared his throat. He suddenly felt nervous and, using all the power of his mind, willed the unwanted feelings away. He had a goal and he was determined to achieve it. He wanted to know. No, he needed to know if John was attracted to him. Sherlock was still unsure of his own feelings, so it seemed logical to him to be at least sure about John's.  
“What is it, Sherlock?” John wanted to sound naturally, but he knew he was failing.  
“I want to make an experiment.”  
“...so you ask me for a permission?” John stared at Sherlock, dumbfounded. “You do your experiments all the time and even once you haven't asked my permission to do so. Why bother?” Sherlock clenched his jaws for a brief moment, closing his eyes and calculating his next movement. Then he asked the second question.  
“John, do you trust me?” John's eyebrows furrowed in a questioning manner.  
“Of course I do. Why would I go chase criminal masterminds along the streets of London, if I didn't trust you? Why do you even ask me this?” Sherlock seemed deep in his thoughts, but replied anyway, stepping closer to John, standing only inches away from him, towering over him.  
“Could be dangerous” he said in a low voice. And then John found himself in the most surprising situation during his living with Sherlock. Sherlock looked closely at him and bent a little, leaning against the doctor.  
“Trust me, John” he whispered and sneaked his right hand to John's body. The doctor just gulped, but said nothing, as the clever hand made it's way to his belt, and lower. He heard his own breath hitching, when the detective's slender palm pressed to his manhood, creating just the right amount of friction. His eyes widened and Sherlock smiled triumphantly. 

“So you are attracted to me...” he whispered, his breath hot against John's skin, making him shiver. “And I thought that you are not gay...” Sherlock pulled slightly back, looking curiously at his beloved friend, a smug smile showing on his face. Pupils dilated, lips parted,the breathing heavy, John looked quite eatable for Sherlock.  
“Because I'm not gay...”  
“Mhm, true. Rather bisexual...”  
“Sherlock!” John turned red again. God, never in his whole life had he felt such a mix of feelings running over him. Intrigued, scared, embarrassed, lusting... He didn't know what to do with them.  
“John, stop denying it. I know that you want me. Even if you don't realize it, you do. And I want you. So, can we stop playing now?” He looked at John seriously. John glanced back at him, then he turned his gaze somewhere else.  
“Sherlock, it's not so easy...”  
“Oh, for God's sake!” Sherlock sighed theatrically and grabbed John by his shoulders, pulling him closer and crashing their lips together. John stiffened, his mind racing, fighting his most denied desires along with his fears. He gritted his teeth together and stopped to breath for a moment, trying to calm down his wildly beating heart. Sherlock furrowed his brows, pulling away when John didn't respond for the kiss. He looked at him worried. 

John stared at him, eyes wild and pupils blown wide, breathing heavy. He cleared his throat and looked down for a moment, then he spoke, voice so quiet that Sherlock had to bend a bit to hear him at all.  
“Promise me, it is not some sort of stupid experiment...” The detective's eyes widened in realization.  
“No. No, John, it's not an experiment. I would never make an experiment out of this...” he said softly, the tone of his voice gone deadly serious. One of his hands made it's way to the shorter man's neck and stroked it lightly, causing goosebumps appear all over John's skin.  
“Because if it is an experiment, and if you do it just to prove some crazy theory of yours, then I think we're done here...” The doctor gulped, feeling how this slender, cool hand spread jolts of pleasure down his spine. He closed his eyes, trying to stay calm.  
“John, I have told you that I'm attracted to you. I know that you have thought that I'm asexual, but it's not the truth. I just don't go in for every occasion I have... I wanted someone with something more than a good body and creativity in bed. I wanted someone with a brilliant brain and a big heart, too. And I think I found him. I found you” Sherlock moved his hands so now they were resting on John's chest, on his soft, warm jumper. His words caused little shivers run across the doctor's body. “I know that maybe I don't know a thing about relationships. To tell the truth, I haven't even considered myself capable of feeling any sort of emotions, until I met you. I feel something... something.... “ The World's Only Consulting Detective frowned, trying to find the right words. John smiled a little at that. Adorable, he thought. 

“God, John, I am a crap when it comes to these things. Apparently I didn't posses the ability to express feelings when I was younger. But it makes me, you make me, inspired. I feel alive everyday. I'm not bored any more, John, when we are together.”  
“You are not bored with me? So why did you turn to cocaine a couple of hours ago?” John asked, but his voice was calm and steady. He didn't want to accuse Sherlock, not now when he finally opened himself up from God knows how long.  
“I told you, it was an accident” Sherlock's face didn't change, but John could see the hurt in his eyes.  
“Knowing how ridiculous thoughts are sometimes appearing in that funny, big brain of yours, I have every right to doubt that it was an accident. But, God help me, I trust you. And I believe you. But I'm not sure, if you want, really want, to be in a relationship...” Especially with me, John thought. Sherlock's hands were wandering on different parts of the doctor's body. John swallowed, trying to push his memories aside, to keep every negative emotion at bay. He trusted this man, he knew that the detective would never hurt him. He tried to lock the images, flashing in his mind, in the darkest room and never let them out. John frowned slightly, realizing that he was silent for too long. Before Sherlock could deduce something from this, he spoke softly but seriously.  
“You know me, so you should know that I want a long-term relationship, Sherlock. What I worry about is, if this is going to work. If 'us' is going to work” he looked at the detective, his mind still a battlefield.

“Yes, I know.”  
“And?”  
“As I've said, I want you. All of you. As long, as I can have you...” Sherlock felt his cheeks becoming warm and was really surprised at his body's respond. “Well, preferably forever, if you can handle me that long... I know I am a downright bastard sometimes...” John smiled at that.  
“Yes, you are.”  
“So what? Do you want this, John? Do you want us?” He looked at John with serious face, his eyes showing all the vulnerability that Sherlock was feeling now. To his great relief, the detective felt John's warm hands travel up his back, higher to his arms, to finally rest on his neck.  
“Yes, Sherlock. I want you and I want us” he stroked his friend's cheeks with his thumbs, pulling him closer and kissing him fully on mouth. Sherlock hummed in surprise and closed his eyes, surrendering to the feeling. John wanted more, so he licked across the detective's lips, begging the permission to enter. 

Kissing was safe, kissing was what brought joy, kissing was a way to say “I love you” without speaking. Sherlock fisted his palms in John's jumper, opening his lips slowly, feeling John's soft tongue probing him gently. John moaned, when he felt the detective's lips parting and letting him in. He pulled Sherlock closer, crushing their bodies together, massaging his back with wandering hands. Sherlock pulled away, panting hard to get the so needed oxygen into his lungs. The doctor looked at him curiously, taking in the very debauched sight of his consulting detective: pupils blown wide, cheeks rosy with slight blush and full lips reddened from kissing. 

“God, Sherlock, do you know what are you doing to me?” He asked, his voice husky, somehow breathy. Sherlock just stared at him through heavy-lidded eyes, then smirked and ran the back of his palm over John's crotch, brushing his hardness.  
“I have an idea...” John moaned at this intimate gesture, managing to keep himself together, his own hands wandering to the other man neatly tailored trousers, trying to unfasten the belt. After a little struggle he managed to do this and then he slid the belt through it's loops, and out of the black trousers. Sherlock gasped, feeling the slide of the leather and gripped John's arms, stilling him. The doctor looked up at Sherlock, his eyes asking a hundred questions at one time. But Sherlock only got closer to John's ear and whispered, not trusting his voice any more.  
“Can we move it somewhere more comfortable? I'm afraid that my legs are not going to keep me upright much longer.” John nodded and they both moved to the living room, sitting down on the sofa. Sherlock looked at John intently, feeling so aroused maybe for the first time in his life. He had had some experience, but it never went beyond touching, squeezing and licking. Now he wanted more, he needed more, and Sherlock was aware that it was because of John. His brave, strong, not-boring-as-everyone-else John. He leaned over him and took the soldier's face in both hands. Running his thumbs over John's thin, slightly parted lips, Sherlock felt the sudden urge to kiss the hell out of him. He pulled John to his lips, kissing him hungrily, feeling John responding to the contact. The doctor moaned, when he felt Sherlock nibbing at his lower lip and gripped Sherlock's shirt with both hands, fisting them, securing the detective in place. When Sherlock felt the world around him spinning, he wasn't entirely sure if it was because his brain lacked oxygen, or because his friend was one hell of a good kisser. 

Eventually, John pulled back slightly, coming for air. Breathing really was boring, he thought, admitting that Sherlock was right. He looked into his detective's eyes and his heart almost jumped out of his chest. Sherlock's eyes, now nearly black, were showing so many raw emotions, that John almost choked. He had been thinking about doing this with his friend for quite a long time, but he always put his desires aside. He always considered himself straight, true, but the real reason was deeper. He had had one experience with a man before, but it had been a real horror. 

No, John shook his head, not now. Don't think about this now, you got over this, you are safe now in the arms of a man who cares about you, maybe even loves you. Don't let your past ruin your future.

“John...” The younger man rasped and it brought John back to here and now. Sherlock sneaked one hand to cup John through the material of his jeans and squeezed lightly. The doctor moaned, his eyes shot to the younger man's opalescent orbs. All of sudden John became aware of his own state, of the heavy breathing, of the warmness on his cheeks, of the over-sensitiveness of his skin and of something really hard just below his waist. He also became almost too aware of his past, and was bombarded with vivid images and memories by his insubordinate brain. 

“John?” He heard Sherlock asking with a tone of great concern. “John? What is it?”  
“Nothing, it's okay” he tried, but it was clear that the magic of the moment somehow slipped and Sherlock cooled a little, coming back to his “detective mode”.  
“John, it's not okay...” Sherlock frowned, running all possibilities in his mind at a light's speed.  
“Sherlock, let go, I'm fine!” He wished, he was. He looked away, swallowing nervously.  
“You are far from being fine, John, I can tell” Sherlock moved back a little to have a better view on John, then he sat upright on the sofa, his hands traveling to the doctor's shoulders, squeezing gently, rubbing them in slow motions.  
“So, you are a mind reader now?” John gritted his teeth. He didn't want to snap at his friend, definitely not now, but he felt as he could barely control himself. Everything that he tried to forget suddenly came to his mind. The shame, the pain, his own screams... they were all vivid and so much alive in his mind.  
“You are trembling, and you are as white as a sheet. What is it? Have I done something wrong? Did I hurt you?” There was a slight tone of panic in his voice, but the detective tried not to lose it.  
“No! God, no! You haven't done anything... It's... it's not your fault.” He swallowed, feeling warmness spreading pleasantly from Sherlock's hands that were still rubbing his shoulders. He could get used to it, he thought.  
“John... please, tell me. It seems serious, I have never seen you in such a state. Please, tell me what is it...”  
“Sherlock, I can't... It's in the past, let it be. I got over this...”  
“Clearly you didn't, otherwise we wouldn't be doing this.” Sherlock pointed out, before he pulled John closer, holding him tightly against his chest. The doctor fell into Sherlock's embrace somehow awkwardly, his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, his upper body held up by the younger man's arms. “Please, John, tell me. God, I hate to know something is so wrong and not be able to help you. What happened?”  
“I can't...” John mumbled into the dark haired man's neck, feeling somehow soothed by the detective's attitude. He would never expect Sherlock to actually comfort him in such way. The man was really a quick learner and, apparently, full of surprises at that.  
“Listen, you told me that I haven't done anything wrong, right?” A nod he got as a response somehow calmed Sherlock. At least it wasn't his fault. Well, not entirely, for he still held a little responsibility, he triggered the reaction, he somehow made John scared... He could barely control his emotions now. He made his brave, strong soldier scared... Sherlock squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and continued what he had in mind. “So, if it's not my fault, why don't you tell me?” But Sherlock had been already deducing possible reasons for John behavior. All of them were set on the “definitely-horrible” level. Sherlock gulped, no good. He felt John shiver and then he heard a quiet, broken whisper leaving his friends lips. 

“I can't tell you, because you'll leave me, when you know.”  
“Oh God, John...” Sherlock closed his eyes again, pulling John even closer, more atop of him and squeezing him so tightly, he was sure he'll leave bruises. “John, I'm not going anywhere, do you hear me? I'm not going anywhere, you are stuck with me, now literary, because I don't intend on letting you go any time soon” he moved one hand up, to rest it on the doctor's neck. “Whatever it is, I'm not leaving you, John. Please, tell me...” John, however, remained quiet. After a minute without any sign from him, Sherlock began to talk, struggling for words, choosing them carefully. The last thing he wanted was to hurt his doctor.  
“John, I need to know...”  
“Why?” It was a whisper.  
“Because I want to help you.”  
“But why? I'm nothing extraordinary. You are amazing with your brain and all those cheekbones and... But I'm just ordinary. I'm boring. Why bother, Sherlock?” The dark haired man's heart sank at this.  
“No, John! You are not ordinary, you are not boring! Your brain is sharp and you have the greatest, the biggest heart I have ever seen in a human being. I'm curious how it even fitted in your chest...” He felt small puff of air on his skin and somehow he knew that John chuckled at that. “I want to help you, John. You are my friend, friends help each other. You taught me that, remember? What happened?” They fell silent for some time. For Sherlock it felt like hours, although they were only minutes. Eventually he came back to the questions he wanted to ask, he needed to ask. 

“When you... panicked before, was it a flashback?” He waited patiently for a response and sighed in relief, when he got one.  
“Something similar...”  
“It was triggered by our making out” it wasn't really a question, rather a statement.  
“Yes.”  
“John, I have to ask this. Were you... used... in a sexual way?” He cursed himself mentally feeling how the whole frame of his friend started to tremble. Sherlock's hands started to move in a circling motion in attempt to soothe John. But soon John started to pull from him, twisting and sitting more upright beside Sherlock. The detective let him do so, but let one of his hands stay on John's back. It was clear that John wanted to keep some dignity, and for Sherlock it meant that the soldier was still up there somewhere. This was a good news.

“It happened when I was in the Afghanistan. I... I somehow managed to get my ass into troubles... I was away from our base, along with three other soldiers...” the blond man paused, memories attacking his brain. Sherlock waited patiently, even though he wanted to say something. Anything. But he waited.”They got furious with me, because a few weeks earlier I had seen them... assaulting a young native woman, and I reported them to our superior officer” John fell silent for a couple of minutes. When he spoken again, his voice was filled with pain. “I was the one to help her, to take care of her wounds after what they did...God, Sherlock, you have no idea what they had done to her...” his head fell down and he pressed his palms to his face, shaking visibly. 

“I was a soldier and a doctor, I had seen a lot even then, but she... I had to report them. But, as it occurred several days later, one of them was a relative to our superior officer's wife, so they got out of this without any punishment. They had waited all those weeks to get to me, so finally, when we happened to be alone, they sort of cornered me. I... I tried to fight them, but I couldn't really do much” John was speaking in a very low voice and Sherlock had to really strain his ears to hear him. The detective felt sick, picturing everything in his mind. He couldn't believe how this could happen to John. Good, strong, caring, warm John. 

His John. 

Sherlock gulped and willed his body to stay calm. John went on with his memories, but soon he found it hard to speak. “The two of them held me and the third one... he...” John took a deep breath. “It hurt, Sherlock” he whispered. “It hurt so much... There was no use screaming, calling for help, there was no one around us. They used the chance, teaching me a lesson I won't forget as long as I'm alive... After... After they finished, they left me, got into the car and headed back to the base” Sherlock felt that his own body was shaking with rage. How could they? The detective felt as if he could kill all of them now. He looked at John, his brave, good soldier... This shouldn't happen to people like him, he was too good for something like this. “After a couple of hours I somehow managed to get myself together. I came back to the base, I needed medical help, so I went to my friend. He was a doctor. When he asked what the hell happened I told him everything... He said that they had done a good thing, leaving me behind” Sherlock looked up at John and froze. 

John was smiling slightly and even if it was a sad smile, it still warmed Sherlock's heart. “He told me that they had drove into a mine not far away from the place they left me. They are all dead, Sherlock. They died there” John shifted his gaze from the carpet he was seemingly trying to hypnotize for the past thirty minutes, to Sherlock. “Look at me, I'm a bad man... Three soldiers saved my life, leaving me in a safe place, and then died in the field, and I'm happy for their death” he said bitterly.

“No, John!” Sherlock nearly jumped, taking both John's hands into his and squeezing tightly. “You are not a bad man! They hurt you, left you to die and what happened was the only fair thing... I'm glad they're dead, because I would have killed them myself for doing this...” Sherlock's voice suddenly became overfilled with emotions and had to clear his throat, in order to be able to speak again. He opened his mouth, but shut it again as he saw tears making their way on his doctor's cheeks. He let go of John's hands and brought his palms to the soldier's face, brushing the wetness away. “John, don't... please, don't cry. It's okay now, you are safe and you are not a bad man. What they did to you...” John flinched at that. “I can't even start to imagine what you had been through. But none of this is your fault. You did what was right, John, you are a good man. Please, don't cry...” He brushed away next portion of tears.  
“Look, who's speaking” John smiled slightly, looking at Sherlock curiously. The detective frowned and brought one hand to his cheek, feeling dampness there. He had been crying along with John and the doctor wondered, whether Sherlock even felt it. Apparently not, for surprise was clear in his eyes when he looked at his fingers now wet from tears. 

Neither of them spoken for a long time. Finally Sherlock broke the silence looking at his doctor.  
“John, let's call it a night. We could both use some sleep, don't you think?” He rose from their sofa and John, hesitating for a second, did the same. He started to head out of the living room, but stopped at the door frame, looking at Sherlock over his shoulder. The younger man nodded at him, but John only muttered under his nose.  
“I don't think I'm going to get much of sleep...” With that he started to mount the stairs to his bedroom. He stopped, when he heard Sherlock's voice, somehow soft and tender.  
“I can stay with you, if you want me to... John?” The man in question seemed to think this over in his head, then he turned around and nodded.  
“That sounds good...” And with that they both entered John's bedroom. 

As soon as they got in, John lied himself on his small, tidy bed, his body clothed. He didn't feel like changing into his pajamas, so he stayed in what he had on, taking only the jumper off. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, not really knowing, if he should sit on the edge of the bed or take chair instead. John, however, made it easier for him, budging over and patting the revealed space on the right side of the bed.  
“I want you to sleep, if only a little, Sherlock” he said softly. The detective came up to the bed, sitting on the side carefully.  
“Are you sure? I mean, I won't do anything... but are you sure that you'll be comfortable?” he asked quietly, looking at John with such a caring in his eyes that the blond man felt his heart skip a beat. He seems even more vulnerable than me, John noticed. He tried to smile and nodded at Sherlock.  
“I trust you” he stated firmly, but his voice was still so soft Sherlock felt that his knees would give way under him, if he hadn't been seated on the bed. He lied down, stretching himself, carefully avoiding any contact with John, not to startle him. He reached with his hand do turn off the bedside lamp, but John interrupted him.  
“Leave it.”  
“Okay” so Sherlock left it turned on for the whole night. He put his feet under the duvet and closed his eyes, stapled long fingers under his chin, thoughts slowly wandering to the Mind Palace, when he sensed a shifting on the bed. The next second a warmness spread on his side and he opened his eyes only to find John lying closer to him, almost touching his torso. John looked up at him with sleepy eyes, ready to back off at any sign from the taller man, but Sherlock only beamed at him and opened his arms in invitation.  
“Come here” and he hugged John tightly to his chest, the doctor curling himself around Sherlock's body, seeking warmth and comfort. He sighed, closing his eyes and willing himself to sleep. Just before he drifted off he heard John snoring softly. He smiled, his mind, somehow calmed down, drifted into unconsciousness. 

The first thing Sherlock became aware of was a dull pain spreading over his ribs. Then he felt a punch and opened his eyes. It was still dark around. Sherlock was greeted by an unfamiliar ceiling and another hard punch into his chest. He tried to sit upright, but something was holding him down to the mattress. Surprisingly soft mattress. He looked to his left and found a particular ex-army doctor grabbing the sheets they were lying on with one hand, while he was trying to hit him again with the other. Sherlock tried to shift a little, but John's left leg was wrapped around his legs while his other was under them, immobilizing him effectively.  
“John” he tried but got no response. John lined up next punch and that sent Sherlock struggling for breath. God, the man hadn't lost anything from his strength gained in the army.  
“John!” But he was still drowning inside his nightmare, his body shifting on top of Sherlock's thinner frame, his both hands coming up to the detective's neck. Sherlock grabbed the doctor's wrists, but it didn't help.  
“John! Wake up!” The detective tried to kick John's butt just to wake him up, but couldn't reach it in the position they were in. Suddenly John's eyes snapped open and Sherlock moaned, scared. His eyes weren't focused on anything, let alone the detective, now struggling to breath, when John's strong arms started to squeeze.  
“John...” it was a raspy whisper, for the detective was really short of oxygen now, his vision becoming blurred and tiny little sparks were dancing before his eyes. He felt himself going slack, his hands dropping down from John's wrists, his eyes fluttering shut. 

And then it was over in a blink of an eye. Sherlock felt how the blissful oxygen came back to his lungs, filling him with energy. Everything became sharp, his vision flooded with colors, even if the inside of the tiny bedroom was dark. He took a few deep breaths, trying not to hyperventilate, pushing his body upwards, sitting on the bed. He looked around, trying to figure out what had just happened, when he spotted John's trembling frame in the farthest corner of the bed. John curled his knees up to his chin and hugged them with his hands, looking at Sherlock with wild eyes. He was breathing so hard that the detective was afraid of his brain that was, no doubt, getting high on oxygen. He started to crawl up to him, but John bucked furiously away until he hit the wall with his back. The doctor looked around surprised at how the wall managed to attack him from behind. He looked at Sherlock again and started to shake. The detective had enough of this struggling with nothing, so he simply got to John, grabbed him and pulled the doctor to his chest, not listening to his protests and barely noticing the arms that wanted to push him away. He stayed like this for a long time, just hugging John, his John, trying to calm the doctor down. 

After some time his shorter frame stopped shaking, so Sherlock pulled back slightly, just enough to see John's face. His eyes were closed and his jaw set so tight, Sherlock became worried about his teeth. He stroked his cheek lovingly, attempting to bring John back to his body. His John, the John he knew so well.  
“John...” he started but his voice trailed off when he had seen John's lips moving slowly.  
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...” he was whispering over and over, like a mantra, and Sherlock felt his heart clench at this. He hadn't been aware how it hurts to see the people you care about in a state like that, until he met John. Now he was too aware of his emotions and of his heart that was pounding heavily in his chest, drumming the doctor's name. He swallowed nervously, a little confused and scared, because, contrary to everyone's opinion, Sherlock Holmes actually had emotions. He simply pushed them aside to avoid uncomfortable situations and the slowing effect they had on his mind.  
“Shh... Stop this, it's alright” he pulled John up to him again and was relieved that there had been no resistance this time.  
“It's not... I could've hurt you... I could've kill you...I'm sorry... Sherlock, I'm sorry... get away from me, please... leave before I could make more damage...please...” he was mumbling against Sherlock's chest and the detective felt the urge to grip John's shoulders and shake him out of his ridiculous thoughts. But he couldn't do this, not now. Instead, he hugged John even tighter, his arms and legs forming a cocoon around his beloved doctor, shielding him from the world.  
“John... John! Please, listen to me... John, it's not your fault, do you hear me? It's not your fault, don't overreact...”  
“Overreact? I could have strangled you, Sherlock! I could've...” his breath caught up in his throat and he started to shake again, his thoughts racing through the frightened mind. He could have killed Sherlock and he wouldn't even realized this, until it was too late to do anything. John felt like crying, but he doubted that he had any tears left.  
“You haven't done any of this, I'm alive so stop accusing yourself, okay?” He pulled away to look at John, to catch these beautiful, deep-blue eyes. “I'm fine... it's okay...” he started to stroke John's hair softly, his mind racing. “Was it a flashback?” he asked, though he knew already. PTSD. In case of John it had been more than only the war itself. It was also the abuse and the reaction Sherlock has triggered that evening. He swallowed audibly, his eyes closing, listening to John's ragged breathing that was finally slowing down a little. The doctor buried his face in the crook of the taller man's neck, inhaling this unique scent that was pure Sherlock.

“Afghanistan?” The detective whispered against blond hair and got a nod back. 

“Was it...?” Another nod, but slower this time. Oh God... 

“Should I...” Sherlock felt as John's fists gripped his shirt tightly and his head shook furiously.  
“Stay...” and Sherlock stayed, rocking both of them gently back into sleep. 

When he opened his eyes again he saw John's face. His beautiful, calm face that could be furrowed and creased with concern or anger at one second, just to light up with a hearty, warm smile the next one. He looked down their bodies and then looked around. They must have shifted at some point in the night for they were now lying in the lower part of the bed, their heads where the feet should be. John was still curled up against his chest, his palms gripping the shirt lightly and Sherlock's arms and legs were wrapped around the smaller man's frame. John moaned and opened his eyes, being immediately greeted with Sherlock's silver orbs. He blinked a few times, just to make sure that it was not a dream, then he closed the eyelids, inhaling deeply. Sherlock's scent overwhelmed him, calming his mind and surrounding his senses. He smiled a little, opening his eyes again, gazing into those opalescent pools before him. 

“Morning” the detective whispered, stroking his fingers over John's back.  
“Morning” John replied, running his eyes over the miracle that has been currently wrapped all around him. Suddenly his gaze stiffened, eyes going wide. He backed a little, pulling from Sherlock and his safe embrace and looked in horror at the man before him. There, on the detective's lean, snow-white neck were dark-blue bruises, shadows of the previous night. Suddenly John became aware of what happened and his sight became blurry again. Sherlock got it in the blink of an eye.  
“John! It's okay, don't... Stay with me, John, please... Don't go where I can't find you. Please, John...” He forcefully grabbed John's head at both sides and forced the man to look into his eyes, leaving the bruises on his neck. “I'm okay, I'm alive and you didn't hurt me. Do you hear me? You. Didn't. Hurt. Me.” And with that Sherlock pressed his lips to Johns, only for a brief moment, not wanting to trigger any reaction again, but desperately needing to prove a point. He was here, alive and kinking, and ready to fight for John. 

John blinked at the brief touch but, fortunately, didn't find it disturbing, on the contrary, it was quite pleasant. He furrowed his brows, the rush of emotions flooding his mind and heart and he didn't know what to do with them.  
“But Sherlock, I...” He started but the detective interrupted him.  
“No, John. I don't want to hear this. I know that you are scared of what you did” he gestured to his neck, but his eyes never left John's. “But I need to tell you something. I was scared last night, too” at this, John gulped. “No, I wasn't scared about what you did to me. It didn't frighten me. I knew you would snap out of it eventually and you did, proving my point. I was scared to see you in this state. I was terrified to see you frightened to death, to see you trembling and falling apart in my arms. I feel honored that you trust me enough to do so, and I swear that I will always be there for you, as long as you need me. But it still hurts me to see you like this. I wasn't even aware of my feelings until you came into my life. You actually made me feel, and you are the only human being out there, in this great world, that I could have feelings for. Let me help you, John...” 

And with that Sherlock kissed John again. He was tender and sweet and John didn't pull away at his actions. He felt the slight pressure of Sherlock's lips on his own, he inhaled sharply at the touch, and Sherlock's scent, this familiar, intimate scent that was pure Sherlock, surrounded him again, flooding his senses. John had been wondering, just for a brief moment, when he became so intoxicated with Sherlock's scent? Well, to be honest, the better question was, when he became so intoxicated with Sherlock himself? 

The detective moaned and pulled away, before his body got the chance to rule his mind. He stroked John's hair lovingly, caressing his cheeks with thumbs, running them lightly over the still tanned skin. The doctor closed his eyes and hummed a low hum, loving the way the taller man caressed him. It was so warm and emotional, so unlike Sherlock, who had always been cold-minded, that it nearly made him fall apart. He shifted on the bed, coming closer to his friend and, resting his head on the detective's chest, he wrapped both arms around his slim figure. John let his body relax, sinking into the steady heartbeat under his ear. 

“John?” He heard Sherlock asking after a long time. He moaned a low one, just to let the detective know that he was still awake.  
“What are you thinking about, John?” His voice was soft, so young...  
“Is it important?” He asked, but there was no anger in his voice, just the curiosity.  
“It seems so, for you are crying. I can feel your tears seeping through my shirt...”  
“Sorry.”  
“Stop. John, it is the first thing that we should work out. Stop being sorry about what you do. Especially about such things, okay?” Sherlock hugged him tighter, but had to release him soon, because John started to pull away. He traveled up, his eyes on the same level with the detective's opalescent orbs, and he sighed. Sherlock raised one eyebrow, biting his tongue not to rush his doctor with some sharp remark.. Whatever he was about to do, Sherlock didn't want to startle him. 

John leaned forward, cupping Sherlock's face with his left hand, and touched their lips together. The detective's eyes fluttered shut, feeling the softness of John's kiss. It was the first kiss really initiated by the smaller man and it made the detective's heart jump with joy. He smirked mentally at his thoughts. Since when had he become so sentimental about his heart? Since you've met John, his mind told him. 

John pulled away after a short while, looking at Sherlock clearly lost in his actions. He raised an eyebrow at the detective, mimicking him and, at the same time, asking “what now?”. Sherlock managed to read his mind, as he always did, and smiled one of his rare, absolutely relaxed smiles, one that he gave John just after their first case together.  
“Tea?” And John smiled, too, nodding a “yes” to him. They got out of John's bed and headed to the kitchen, just to find a small, deliciously looking apple pie and a message attached to it. “Have a pleasant morning, boys” it said in Mrs. Hudson's handwriting and both of them smiled wider at that.


	5. Bringing back what we lack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How John and Sherlock had finally managed to do some lovemaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut, so much smut...
> 
> Okay, we go to one event between then and now. Enjoy!

Later on Baker Street

Sherlock was lying on the couch, watching telly, all the while keeping an eye on John that was quietly updating his blog. Writing about their latest case kept him quite busy, for he had had a lot to write about. The case had been really difficult, rather long and extremely dangerous. When they had landed in the old warehouse, they thought that it was the end of the case, that the only thing that had been left for them to do, was to close it officially and hand it to Lestrade. Well, no such luck. When Sherlock and John entered the warehouse, they were faced with a group of angry criminals. The detective could barely open his mouth to say something, when he felt as something rather heavy landed on him, knocking him to the ground and pinning him down. He looked around and saw John, currently lying atop of him, trying to cover the detective with his own body. Sherlock could only moan, feeling embarrassed and extremely uncomfortable, when he heard a gunfire. And then he knew – John, his good, brave, brilliant soldier, he sensed the danger and pushed both of them to the ground to keep them safe from the bullets. 

“Stay down!” John shouted. He was pressing Sherlock forcefully down, face first to the ground, with his shorter form stretched tightly along his friends lean, long body. Those twenty-two seconds were imprinted in Sherlock's memory in burning letters.  
Every time, when he was thinking about something, his thought's were interrupted by the feeling of John's body on his own, by his breath right next to Sherlock's ear, puffing softly, warmly, on the delicate skin of his upper neck. This moment wasn't supposed to be remembered like that. These were seconds filled with fear and adrenaline, with pain, shouting and shooting. Until they received help from Lestrade and New Scotland Yard, they were hiding from the bullets for almost two minutes, from which twenty-two seconds took them lying down flat on the ground. 

Sherlock closed his eyes. This wasn't supposed to be like this. He was really starting to behave like a teenager, and a horny one at that. But, try as he might, he couldn't do a thing to rule his body, to made it obey his wishes. Every time, when he closed his eyes, Sherlock could feel John's body against his own, the hard planes of his own body pressed firmly to the softer, but oh, so much stronger ones, the subtle scent of his sweet army-doctor tickling his nostrils, entering his body when he was inhaling, making it's way to his mind... 

At this Sherlock moaned and pushed himself up from the couch, stretching his body and heading to his bedroom.   
“Goodnight, John” and with this he left, leaving John surprised and wondering why did Sherlock go to bed that early. Well, the better question would probably be: why did he go to sleep at all? John didn't know. And, to say the truth, he didn't really want to know. He wanted to end this entry, post it and go to sleep himself. He was quite tired after the case and he was looking forward to a long, warm, comfortable night in his bed upstairs. He rubbed his eyes, resigned, and went back to his blog. 

Sherlock slumped on the bed as soon as he entered the bedroom. The door was closed, but not locked. Sherlock wasn't even sure, if the lock was still working, for he rarely used it. He didn't have to, the only people in this apartment were John and Mrs. Hudson, and they had always asked for the permission to enter. Well, he was sure that, while Mrs. Hudson would probably ruin his artistic disorder, carefully put up among the years, he wouldn't mind John entering without permission. In fact he would be glad for it, because he really wanted John in his bedroom. In any way possible. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and nearly groaned with frustration. Two hours of watching John sitting on that bloody chair that was somehow making his back muscles stand out and his posture straighten, gave Sherlock a serious problem. And, while the detective learned how to solve the problem that was currently occurring more often then not, he had no idea how to solve the whole case. The case of John Watson, his college, his friend, the man he probably loved, because that was what Sherlock Holmes did. He did either love people or hated them (for various reasons: being extremely stupid, ignorant or being his arch-enemy). He loved few of the people that he knew, but no one was even close to John Watson. The ex-soldier, the doctor, the man that had given Sherlock more hard-ons in the last few weeks than he had had during his entire life. A man that Sherlock couldn't have.

The detective turned on his side, buried his face in the pillow and groaned with frustration. He couldn't say a word to John about his pathetic state and it was mentally killing him. Sherlock knew that John was still delicate about what happened in the past and it was exactly what was stopping him from doing what he wanted.   
The detective ran his hand through his dark curls and tried to figure out what he should do about the hardness just below his waist. The best thing possible would be a certain army doctor taking care of it, but Sherlock knew that this wouldn't happen any time soon. He moaned when he palmed himself through his pajama trousers, feeling with blinding clarity just how over-sensitive his body had became. Well, if having John do this for him was out of question, then he had to take care of his desires himself. 

He stretched his lean body on the king-size bed, lying haphazardly, one arm under his head, the second wandering over his chest. God, he would do anything to have John's hand doing this to him. He closed his eyes and started picturing the doctor's muscular, strong hands caressing his body with delicacy, his warm fingertips running over the detective's pale skin, setting all synapses on fire. Sherlock moaned, his fingernails digging in the sensitive flesh over his ribs, leaving four red marks behind. He could feel the tingling lingering there, the slightly burning sensation that was immediately exchanged with stings of pleasure. 

Interesting, Sherlock thought, my body had never been responding this way to any touch. Why is it acting like this now? 

He bit his lip, trying not to moan too loud, when his fingers grazed his left nipple. Little jolts of pleasure ran down his body, pooling in the lowest part of his spine. He touched the nipple again, this time imagining it was John's hand, not his own, doing this to him. And then it hit him, this single word, the only one word in the world that was the answer to all his questions. The word that was the key to his body and it's strange acting. And the word was...

“John!” Sherlock jumped, when opening his eyes, he saw his friend standing in the doorway, totally speechless and staring at him dumbfounded. He tried to cover himself at the beginning, but then he discovered that he quite liked that John was staring at him. “John, my face is here” he said feeling warm all of sudden.  
The doctor stood motionless there in the doorway for a moment more, then he shook himself out of his state and looked the detective in the eyes, swallowing audibly, looking very embarrassed. 

When he decided to go to Sherlock's bedroom, to pass him his phone, because the detective had gotten three texts from Lestrade, he wasn't expecting to find what he had. Sherlock, looking truly debauched, was sprawled across his bed, his pale skin flushed, mouth gaping and his hand running all over his chest. For a brief moment, the doctor wanted nothing more to just turn around and run away. Then, on the second thought, he wanted to rip those pajama pants off and help Sherlock. Instead he just blushed furiously and cleared his throat.

“Lestrade did text you three times already. He's got a new case and wants to be sure if we'll be at the Yard tomorrow morning” John made a move that was signaling his readiness to go out, but Sherlock was quick enough to jump and grab his friend's arm, pulling him back and sitting him on the bed. John looked at Sherlock curiously. “Sherlock?”  
“John...” the detective hesitated for a moment, but then decided to say what he had in mind. “Would you give me a helping hand in my experiment?” Sherlock asked, his voice calm, but the tone of it dropped a little.   
“What do you have in mind?” The soldier said, coking one eyebrow questioningly. Sherlock moved closer on the bed, his movement reminded John about cats. Big, mysterious cats, hunting in the wild. He knew very well what the detective had in mind, but wanted to hear it nonetheless. Partly, to make sure they were thinking about the same thing, partly, because he was certain that this will turn him on.   
“I know that we were talking about this just yesterday, but what we established then...” Sherlock started, but John interrupted him.  
“You mean the part that I feel comfortable, or rather my brain feels comfortable as long as another man isn't touching me... there?”  
“Yes, exactly that part. I was thinking that maybe, if you were distracted enough, maybe you could get yourself through the critic point...” the detective was now inches away from John, their eyes on the same level, their foreheads almost touching. “Or, maybe we can try to do this without touching at all...” Sherlock cleared his throat, feeling slightly nervous, still waiting for an answer. 

He knew that John wanted to try something more in this department. Once they had talked everything through, they established what was safe for them to do. It was okay to kiss, after all John had kissed a lot of girls in his life and none of them triggered any reaction. It was also fine when girls were touching John and Sherlock quickly deduced that it was because all of John's girlfriends were soft, feminine and delicate. Surely, when the detective, with his hard, long body, tried to touch the doctor, his brain was becoming alarmed, even if he desperately tried not to react this way. One thing appeared to be especially curious about John Watson's reactions – he was perfectly fine with touching Sherlock, as long as he himself hadn't been touched. 

John licked his lips unconsciously, looking into those two, now nearly black pools that were watching him expectantly. Oh, he wanted to try something out. Anything. But he still remembered last time when they tried to make it work. Sherlock's ministrations were oh, so delicate, so soft... And the detective himself was rather soothing and caring, keeping his usual self at bay. But it still didn't work.

“What do you have in mind?” The doctor asked again, leaning closer, touching his lips to those parted slightly before him. He pushed Sherlock backwards, kissing him gently but leaving no place for the misunderstanding of his plans. The taller man gladly obeyed, half-lying on the bed, still feeling immensely aroused. His body started to act on it's own as soon as he had felt John's thin lips firmly pressed to his own. His hands started to roam over John's back, his fingers tracing every muscle on the soldier's still taut body, scratching lightly here and there.   
“Sherlock... take it easy...” John whispered, pressing his forehead into the crook of Sherlock's neck, panting heavily, feeling himself getting hard. He wanted this man, he really did, but what if his mind would play with him in that cruel way it always did? What if he would start trembling all over again, and not from desire, but from fear? His body seemed unable to be convinced about his trust toward Sherlock, and it always acted on its own instincts, what was seriously infuriating for John. He wanted to touch Sherlock and be touched freely, to feel the desire and to share it without being afraid of his own fears, of his own past.

“John... come back here! Don't think too much...” Sherlock gently sucked on his neck, spreading familiar tingling over the older man's skin. John moaned low, his hands making their way to the detective's dark curls, fingers tangling in them, gripping hard.  
“Sorry...” he mumbled into Sherlock's neck, kissing the skin he found there lightly just to sink his teeth into it a few seconds later. Sherlock moaned, his hips bucking upwards, meeting John's pelvis.   
“Don't apologize... just... stop over-thinking... this...” the dark haired man gasped, feeling jolts of pleasure shooting down his spine. Not for the first time he found himself wondering, if this delicious electricity was coming directly from the body above his own. He moaned quietly, when on one of his upward thrusts his hips met John's, that were coming down in a sharp, quick movement. This primal pleasure that jolted through them, unrevealed something in the cold-headed detective. He moaned loudly, bringing his hand's to the doctor's hips and pushed them forcefully down, flushing their bodies together, while he bit hard on the smaller man's shoulder. John moaned above him and then stilled, his eyes closed, jaw set tight. Shit, Sherlock thought, not good...

“John?” He could feel his voice trembling, but if it was fear or lust, he could no longer tell. “John, look at me... please, John, look at me!” He grabbed John's head hard with both hands, and forced him to look directly into Sherlock's eyes. “John, listen to me. We both want this to work, but there clearly is something wrong, and this something is the trust. You don't trust me, John.”  
“I'm sorry...” the doctor cut in in a whisper, still too affected to use his voice, but happy that he somehow managed to stop his body from shaking.   
“No John, listen to me. It's nothing you should be sorry for. It's not up to you, it's in your brain, too deep inside for you to fight it... And I don't care, do you hear me? It doesn't change the way I see you, all right? Don't think about it too much, please. Don't grief over it, let it go...” He tried to wrap his arms around John, but the soldier pushed slightly back. He looked at Sherlock seriously and asked in a grave-tone:  
“How can I let it go if it affects this,” he gestured between them, “if it affects us, so much?”  
“We'll find another way...” Sherlock looked up just to see John's doubtful expression. “Actually” he added as an afterthought “I have already been thinking about something... Put your hand under the bed, John...” he nodded to his right and John, cocking one eyebrow curiously, still doubting, reached with his hand just to find...  
“A belt?” He asked, feeling the thick leather with his fingers. “Wait, you want to tie me down, so I won't escape when I feel uneasy?” John paled visibly and Sherlock watched this with horror rising in his guts. He also felt hurt, because he couldn't even picture himself doing such thing to John, his dear, good John... Well, he tried to force him to do different things on daily basis, but forced sex was out of the question. 

Unless, of course, they found out that it was one of their kinks. Until then he couldn't even think about doing such thing.  
“I hope you received a good sum of money when you had sold your brain on the market the other day. ARE YOU NUTS? I wouldn't even think about forcing you to do such thing!” John could feel the hurt in his friend's voice.  
“Then why...”  
“Because I wanted you to feel safe while you'll be taking care of us both, preferably even fucking me into the mattress! But now I'm not so sure about this... If you panicked I wouldn't want Mrs. Hudson to come here and untie me from the railing.” He looked at John, eyes waiting, wanting... John gulped, feeling his arousal coming back at a light-speed, picturing Sherlock in his mind, tied up, moaning and writhing...   
“Do you think it could work?” He asked in a low voice.  
“I don't know, I wanted to give it a try. To experiment. If your brain registered that I was helpless, that I couldn't hurt you in any way, then maybe it wouldn't bother you so much?” Sherlock swallowed hard, looking at his doctor, almost being able to see the gears in his head coming to life.  
“Are you sure?” John had seen the logic behind the plan that his genius flatmate had made. But he still didn't like the idea of restraining the detective. Well, maybe he liked it a bit, part of him could actually enjoy bringing the helpless genius to the edge over and over again, till he no longer knew his name, but the other, noble part of doctor John Watson screamed at him that it would be no good.   
“Yes, John, I'm sure. I want to try this not only because I intend on helping you but I also realized, while I had been toying with this belt yesterday, that I find the idea of being tied up quite appealing” with that, Sherlock lifted his arms up, pushed them between the bed railings and waited, licking his lips slowly. “So, how would it be, doctor? Would you help your patient hmmmmm” 

The rest of the sentence left his lips as a mumble, as John planted his lips hungrily over Sherlock's plush ones, tongue pushing between them, searching, exploring. He took the belt with his right hand and, holding the World's Only Consulting Detective's arms firmly to the railings, fastened it tightly. Sherlock moaned at this, his body writhing underneath John's solid frame, arms tugging at the restraints, checking their hold. The doctor lifted himself a little and looked into those opalescent eyes, now half closed with desire. His gaze shifted downwards, over the pale expanse of Sherlock's front, setting on the detective's groin. 

Oh.

“John...”  
John looked up, his mouth watering. He licked his suddenly dry lips and moaned rather than said.  
"What do you want, Sherlock?" There was a silence above him, then he saw those lustful lips moving, but no sound came out. The taller man cleared his throat and tried again, this time successfully, but his voice was barely audible.   
"Touch me..." and to make his point clear enough, he thrust with his hips upwards, bringing their bodies together. John felt the hardness beneath him, Sherlock's pajama trousers and his own clothes still between them. He started to kiss Sherlock's neck, laving with his hot tongue at the delicate skin, making the dark haired man shiver and tug at his restraints. He ran his hands over Sherlock's torso, massaging gently over his pectorals, fingers briefly grazing nipples, just to go lower, over his abdominal muscles, to the soft path of dark, slightly red hair, just below his navel. Sherlock bit his lower lip hard, his head spinning. He felt dizzy and hot, and he so desperately wanted John to dig his hand underneath the waistband of his pants and... 

But John pushed himself up, kneeling on the bed and started to remove his own clothing, the room suddenly felt too hot. First went the jumper, then the soft tee he was wearing underneath. Sherlock licked his lips sensually, his gaze fixed on John. He loved the way the doctor's body was still taut after his training in the army. He let his eyes roam over the slightly tanned chest, delicate, soft hair between his nipples that Sherlock wanted to taste so badly. John's hands moved to the belt, unbuckling it slowly, deliberately taking his time to torture the aroused detective in front of him. He undid it completely and was slipping it out of the trousers' loops when he heard his name being moaned from somewhere between pillows. 

"John..." 

The doctor gasped, his hands stilling their movement. Sherlock, with his hair sticking out at every possible direction, his flushed cheeks and parted lips, was staring at him, mouth gaping and eyes nearly black with desire. He had never seen such a lustful stare in another human being.   
"What do you want, Sherlock? Tell me..." John moved up on the bed, the belt still in his hands, silver buckle clinging lightly when he dragged it over the detective's right nipple. Sherlock moaned loudly, cool metal sending foreign sensations flying through his body. He tugged forcefully at the belt, but it was hugging his wrists tightly, too tightly to take his hands out of it. 

"Sherlock... tell me what do you want..." He closed his mouth over one pale nipple, sucking gently, his free hand going to the other, pinching it slightly. The detective bucked under him, his body arching off the bed.  
"John... John, please... " He felt John's body reacting to him, his muscles rippling under the doctor's tanned skin, his breath coming out in gasps over his nipple and... 

Oh... 

There was something hot and hard in his soldier's trousers that was now nudging his hip bone. He rolled his hips, making John moan over his pale chest.   
"John... touch me..." Sherlock moaned, his narrow hips going up again, the rough denim of John's jeans created a delicious friction on his hard member and Sherlock shivered, closing his eyes. "Please, John, touch me... any way you like... any way you want... just... Touch. Me. Now." He pointed every word with sharp thrust of his hips, his hands gripping bed railing hard. He could already feel his tied wrists becoming sore, but he didn't care. All that mattered in that second was John, his warm body pressed to him and his tongue, that was now dancing over Sherlock's chest. The detective closed his eyes, arching his neck, giving John more room. The doctor's hands moved up, belt still in them, and suddenly Sherlock felt something being placed just under his chin. He opened his eyes and had to focus hard in order to see anything through the haze of his arousal. 

"John?" It was a whisper, so soft and vulnerable that John instantly looked up, his eyes catching those beautiful orbs, now wide with surprise. Then, seeing no fear in them, just the pure lust and a bit of urgency, John smiled at Sherlock and finished his work. He pulled away to admire the view: the World's Only Consulting Detective, looking absolutely eatable, was now lying tied up, with a makeshift collar around his swan-like neck, panting heavily. John swallowed hard and proceeded to finally take off his trousers, all the time looking closely at the detective. 

Sherlock was sure he had died and gone to heaven. His body was on fire, his lungs were too small to provide him with enough air and there was a pleasant ache in his groin. He looked at John, who pulled his boxer-briefs down along with his trousers. Sherlock felt his mouth going suddenly dry. Oh God... The detective may not have had a big experience in this area, but he didn't need it to know one thing: John Watson was a big boy. His member wasn't long, but it was thick, and smooth, it's head broad and glistening at the tip. Sherlock moaned without even noticing it and tried to prop himself up on the bed, but the firm grip of belt on his hands made it impossible for him to move. John definitely knew how to tie someone up. 

The man in question climbed back onto the bed, hoovering over Sherlock, pulling his pajamas down over those beautiful, pale legs. The taller man achieved to lift his body a little to help John. As soon as they were both naked, John stretched his body over Sherlock's thinner frame, their cocks pressed together, causing a delicious friction. Sherlock moaned again, his hips bucking upwards on their own accord. 

John, feeling the foreign sensation on his manhood, was suddenly aware of what he was really doing. He looked Sherlock in the eyes, first stings of fear making their way into his mind. The detective lifted his head, bringing their lips together, trying to distract John from the thoughts that were hunting him again. He felt two fingers sneaking under the leather, settling there, between his makeshift collar and the sensitive pulse point on his neck. He felt John biting his lower lip, sucking on it gently, while he held him by the belt, his body moving gently over the taller man's. Sherlock moaned again, trying to say something, but John would have none of it. He pushed his tongue deeper into the detective's mouth, owning it completely, pinching Sherlock's nipple hard with his free hand. The detective arched his back off the mattress, seeking more, needing more. 

And finally, finally, John brought one of his hands down, gripped both shafts and squeezed, at first lightly, then more firmly, moving his hand up and down. Sherlock jolted, a strangled cry of ecstasy escaping his lips between their feverish kisses, bodies began to move more urgently now, seeking more friction. John felt a heavy, nerve-crushing pleasure pouring down his spine like a liquid honey. He moaned and growled into Sherlock's mouth, every trace of fear pushed aside, forgotten at last. He opened his eyes in realization. The breaking point was way past him, now he was safe, safe, and he could do whatever he wanted. And what he wanted to do, was Sherlock. 

"John?" The detective felt John stilling his movements, shock clear in his face. That's it, he thought, the panic had returned and it would all end now... He watched his doctor's face changing, first to surprised, then to unsure, finally setting to pleased. 

Pleased? 

Sherlock looked with worry at his lover's face, his body still trembling, his hips seeking friction. John brought his left hand to Sherlock's hands, unbuckling the belt, massaging reddened wrists carefully, his right hand still gripping their hot, heavy shafts in a firm grip, moving slowly every now and then. Too slow... 

"John?"  
"Shh..."  
"John..." Sherlock trembled, when he felt the doctor's hand guiding one of his to their joined bodies.   
"Touch me, Sherlock..." John whispered hotly next to his ear and Sherlock obeyed happily, sighing “God, yes...” and wrapping his long, bony fingers over their hot, leaking lengths. He groaned, when the ex-soldier started to move their joined palms at a quick pace, squeezing almost painfully.   
"G-g-g-od, John... Oh... Ohhhh..." Movements of their joined hands, the pressure on his member, the slick sensation, the feeling of finally touching John, his John, was enough to bring Sherlock to the edge. His whole body was moving in sync with their limbs, his lips planting open mouthed kisses on John's shoulders and neck. He felt one of John's hands sneaking under him, making its way up, up to his neck and gripping the belt he still had been wearing.   
"Sherlock... oh god... oh... so good..." John moaned and his fingers gripped the belt tightly, tugging the detective's head backwards, into the soft pillow underneath.

"John..." He would have red marks from this "collar" later, but he didn't mind. 

“John...” Sherlock found that thought rather appealing. 

“John...” He heard a strangled cry above and opened his eyes just in time to see John's face, contorting beautifully in pleasure, his lips opened, eyes tightly shut and body arched backwards. 

"Sherlock!" It was a deep groan and then he came, spilling into their hands, slicking them further. He trembled and moaned and Sherlock was sure he had never been happier in his whole life. He felt his eyes burning and it was all it took to get himself together. 

Even though John came and was still shaking slightly, aftershocks running through his body, he had never stopped the movement of his hand. Sherlock was close, so close... All of his nerve-endings were on fire, his vision blurred and his senses narrowed to a certain area of his body. He felt John shifting closer over him, kissing him deeply, somehow predatory, with his teeth and tongue and then he heard a low whisper right next to his ear.  
"Sherlock Holmes, I love you" and that did it. Sherlock shouted when he came, his vision becoming black, ecstasy shooting up his body, muscles trembling, skin burning, his mind going blissfully blank. He heard someone crying "John!" and just when he let himself fall into the darkness he realized it was his own voice. It was the first of many of their heated evenings, each new better then the previous one.


	6. And we try to grasp it slowly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's do some deducing.

Presently

Sherlock and Lestrade appeared in the New Scotland Yard exactly twenty minutes later. The DI let the younger man into his office and went somewhere to find what they came here for. Sherlock sat down, waiting patiently, his mind flicking through all the possibilities at a light-speed. He supposed that John was alive... No, he knew that John was alive. He had to be alive, because Sherlock needed him. 

Lestrade returned as quickly as he could, finding Sherlock exactly where he left him, seated on the chair by his desk. He handed him the small, wooden box with the unfortunate gift inside and the detective eagerly opened it. He looked carefully at it, taking in every small detail he could find. But, to say the truth, he didn't have to make out every detail. The second he opened it, he knew that John was alive. 

“Lestrade, this is not John's finger. I know, I said it earlier, but I was wrong. This one is very similar, but it's not John's...” he looked up from the chilled body part. They kept it in a freezer to prevent it from rotting.   
“Why did you change your mind?”  
“Look here” the detective pointed at the part in the middle of it's length. “A mark should be still visible here.”  
“A mark?” The DI's eyebrows shot up on his forehead.  
“Yes, a bruise, if you like” Sherlock huffed.  
“Sherlock, how could you possibly know that this bruise, whatever it was, hadn't faded already?” Lestrade's expression was doubtful and Sherlock felt the anger slowly rising in him. Why did he have to always explain everything?  
“I know it didn't, because I know John, I know his body and I definitely know when I have bitten him. Now, could you stop asking me useless questions and actually start helping?” He could see the eyes of the older man going wide at the information and heard him clearing his throat.  
“Are you telling me that this bruise was a bite mark and that you two...” he couldn't finish, because Sherlock interrupted him, annoyed beyond thinking.  
“You need to know that, as much as I want to discuss it with you, John will kill me if he knows, so let's leave our sexual life for more appropriate conversation, hopefully with John taking part in it.”  
“Okay, okay, not that I'm interested in what you two do in your bed” The DI raised his hands in a surrendering gesture and Sherlock rolled his eyes.   
“All right. Now, log in to your e-mail box” the detective said, while he started clicking on his phone with rapid movements. “I'll send you the photo that madman sent me. We'll try to figure out where he keeps John.”   
“Okay, give me a minute” Lestrade said and switched his computer on. As soon as he received the e-mail from Sherlock he let the detective have his way with his laptop. Sherlock seated himself on Lestrade's chair.

“Do you have any photo-editor here?” He asked, his eyes never leaving the screen.   
“Yeah, there should be the Photoshop installed” the DI answered, not really knowing where it would lead them. The younger man found what he was looking for and, after some time filled with clicking and typing, he nodded at Lestrade to take a look. The man in question came closer, leaning over Sherlock's back to watch the screen. There was the very same photo Moriarty had sent to Sherlock – John sitting in the middle of a dark room, tied to a chair. His body was still bloodied, even though Lestrade hoped that it would go away somehow. He wasn't really a soft-heart, but the sight of this incredibly good and brave man weakened something inside him. This shouldn't happen to people like him, he thought. 

“I applied some lightning filters as well as setting the contrast on lower, and the brightness on higher level. Look, what we have now” Sherlock clicked on the keyboard and a new layer appeared, brightening photo visibly. The DI's eyes widened at the now clear background of the picture.  
“Good God... it's one of the old warehouses! But Sherlock, it'll still take months to find out which one!”  
“No, look here, do you see these two lines? Over there, on the left, do you see them?” He pointed the lines on the screen, sliding his finger along their length. They were in the farest corner of the magazine, mostly covered in shadow that was still lingering there, despite his manipulations.   
“Railings?” Lestrade almost whistled with realization. “Wait, then it should be one of the oldest, where carts were used to transport materials...”  
“Exactly! And seeing this column of light” the dark haired man pointed with his finger again “we can deduce that it is the one, which has it's windows set directly under the roof. Look, the column of sunlight is nearly perpendicular.” The detective clicked some more buttons and a small window, containing all the data about the photo, showed up. “Here is the date when the photo was taken. Almost every photo has such statistics. It was the same day we received it. And here is the time, eight o'clock at the morning” Lestrade nodded and Sherlock proceeded “then, if the light was so strong at this time of the day, the window must be built-in in the east wall of the building!”

“Excellent! I'll get Donovan to search it as soon as possible” and with that he left the office, shouting for the sergeant and bringing her back with him. Sherlock's eyes never left the screen, his mind screaming at him to go and find John. Now.  
Sally entered the office following the DI. She greeted the Consulting Detective with her usual “Hello, Freak” and came closer to take a look at the photo.  
“Okay, I see your point, boss, but I still think that the voice on the tape was doctor's. We all know that he's dead n...” her voice trailed off as she looked at Sherlock. His posture hadn't changed but in his eyes, there was something so utterly wild, roaring and screaming, that Sally became afraid of him. This man could kill her right there and then and he wouldn't be sorry. Not even if nobody knew what he would have killed her for. Lestrade cleared his throat.

“Sherlock thinks that the voice on the tape was just very similar to John's” he said, eyes never leaving Donovan.   
“He thinks? And what does he have to prove that? Do you want us to run around London, busting into every warehouse and magazine that we came across just to find him d... find that it is too late? We are not his sniffer dogs!” She really wanted to say more, but then Sherlock rose up from the chair and looked at her. The temperature in the room suddenly dropped several degrees. Sherlock's stare was ice-cold, his lips tightly set in a thin line. Lestrade seeing that the detective was on the verge of bursting, stood between them and looked at Sally.  
“Sherlock said that he is sure the voice is not Watson's” he decided to skip the part of moaning, Sherlock noticed, genuinely grateful for that. Lestrade continued “as far as I can remember I'm the one giving orders here, and you are to obey them. So, shut up now, take your team and go find that bloody warehouse, please. And it would be better for your job to find it with John Watson still breathing. Is that understood?” Sally seemed so taken aback by his words that she just nodded and went out of the room, murmuring something under the breath. Sherlock looked at Lestrade, his eyes slightly wider than usual.

“Thank you” he said to the DI who slumped down into his chair.  
“I want to find him, too, you know. And she is here to do her job, not to show how much she doesn't like you. Go, have a coffee. When we find something I'll text you.” Sherlock nodded and went out, his thoughts filled with John, with his bloodied body showed on the photo. He was almost sure that he hadn't seen any wound on the doctor's chest. The picture was one of a really bad quality and he couldn't make out much. He needed more data. Or time. Preferably both, but he knew he would have none of them. 

As soon as he left the NSY, he decided to go somewhere near, where he could have a good coffee in a quiet place. He needed a place that would make him feel as if nothing happened, for he needed to fool his mind. He couldn't think straight when John's life was in danger, and he desperately needed his brain clear now. So he headed to the only place that made him feel cozy, homey and calm, and wasn't the Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson asking questions about John. He headed to Angelo's.

Sitting at the table, sipping his coffee, Sherlock brought back memories of the last time he and John had been together. Really together. Alone. He knew, he shouldn't be doing this, sentiment was distracting. But right now Lestrade had been taking some actions and all Sherlock could do was to wait patiently. So he let himself slow down a little, diving into his memories.


	7. Hold it tight pressed to our heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did the bite-mark made it's way to Jhn's finger?

It was already midnight. They had finished their last case and were heading home. On their way to Baker Street – they were walking, no point in taking a cab since the evening had been warm and beautiful – Sherlock pulled John into a dark alley.   
“What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?” The doctor asked, but he soon found out as Sherlock had pushed him against the wall.   
“John, you were amazing today, telling Anderson what you had told him...” The detective gripped John's shoulders and squeezed, shifting closer and pressing his body into the smaller man. John gasped, feeling the heat radiating from his partner.  
“You mean, when I sent him to the devil, or the part wi...” he couldn't finish the sentence, because his lips had been attacked by a storm of teeth, tongue and wild, black curls. He moaned incoherently, his hands gripping the younger man's shoulders, trying to pull him back a little, but failing miserably. He knew that with all his military training, he could easily immobilize Sherlock, but he didn't really want to. He wanted it even less when he felt slim hips grinding against him, something hard brushing his right hipbone. “Sherlock?” He panted, when they came for air. Sherlock just moaned at this, the sound escaping his lips was more like him saying obvious, but it seemed that his whole vocabulary died somewhere between the crime scene and the wall. The wall with some John Watson pushed up against. He growled then and attacked the doctor's mouth again, biting hard on his lower lip. He could feel John getting hard under his trousers and it sent pleasant shivers running down his spine. 

John brought both his hands to the detective's hips, stilling his thrusting, what Sherlock recapitulated with a disappointed sigh and a frown. He looked up at John, eyes wide, pupils dilated and cheeks discretely flushed.   
“Sherlock, we can't do this here.”  
“But there is no one in the streets at this hour and I want you...” the detective licked his lips, looking John deeply in the eyes. The doctor mimicked his move, his own tongue flicking over his, suddenly dry lips.   
“What do you want?” John asked seductively, his lips coming dangerously close to Sherlock's ear, while the doctor's hands grasped his belt, starting to unbuckle it.   
“You... John, please...” the taller man leaned forward resting his hands on either side of John's head. He kissed him, slowly this time, and gasped, as he felt one of John's hands slipping into his trousers, sneaking over as much of his hard flesh as he could grip, squeezing gently through the soft fabric of his boxer-briefs. “Please...” he moaned, his forehead resting on John's temple. 

“What...” nib on his collarbone “...do...” another, harder this time “...you...” wet, hot tongue laving at the sore spot “...want...” tongue traveling higher “...me...” on his neck “...to do...” into his ear “Sherlock?”

“JOHN!” He cried, his hard member throbbing under his doctor's ministrations. He shivered and buried his face into the crook between John's shoulder and his neck. “Fuck me...” it was a small, quiet plea, whispered directly into John's ear. Now it was his time to moan, as he looked around assessing the possibility. It was rather late into the night, they were alone in a dark alley with probably no one in the radius of two miles. He quickly flipped them around, pressing Sherlock to the wall, face first, and putting his hands on either side of his head.   
“You'll have to be very quiet, or the game is over, understood?” He all but growled into the nape of Sherlock's neck, making the detective tremble with anticipation. He quickly nodded and pushed his backside toward John, colliding with the doctor's groin, making them both gasp and shiver. John quickly undid the rest of detective's trousers and pulled them down to his knees.   
“Take off that damned coat of yours” he groaned, tugging impatiently at the offending clothing. Sherlock complied without second thoughts, exposing himself to his doctor's hungry touches. John was now painfully hard, the little power play they had turned him more than he would admit. He kicked Sherlock's legs apart, and stepped between them. One of his hands sneaked to the detective's front, squeezing him through his boxers, the other stayed on his buttocks, massaging firmly. Sherlock bucked, his breath a hiss, when he felt John's strong palms working his flesh, kneading his body with almost painful pressure. Almost. 

“John, stop teasing...” he whispered. The next moment he felt his underwear join his trousers in the middle of his legs and something cool was placed between his arse cheeks. 

John's finger. 

John's slippery finger, slicked up with saliva probably that has enough time to cool a little. He moaned again when he felt this strong, clever digit probing him, pushing gently at his entrance. He writhed impatiently, the tension almost unbearable. John chuckled behind him and pushed his finger all the way inside. Sherlock arched his back feeling the sweet sensation of pain and pleasure mixed together. Oh, it felt so good... 

“John... stop teasing” he moaned again and immediately felt the second finger pushing along with the first, stretching him further. He bit his lips against sounds that were treating to escape his mouth. John pressed his whole body length against him and he felt strangely safe. Assured. He felt even more so, when a pair of hot lips found a particularly sensitive spot behind his ear and started to suck on it.   
“God, Sherlock... do you have any idea how erotic you look like right now?”  
“John...” Sherlock groaned and tried to peer over his shoulder to look at his doctor, but John pushed his third finger inside the detective, making him straighten his back. 

When Sherlock's forehead hit the wall with a loud thud, John knew that he hit the right spot inside the trembling detective. He quickly pulled his fingers out of him and, before the taller man had any time to protest, he lined himself up and pushed inside the tight heat.   
“Fuck!” John heard Sherlock cursing under his breath and proceeded to move carefully forward. His saliva provided only as much lubrication as was needed to ease the pain. The toe-curling, burning sensation remained, making Sherlock squirm. When he was fully buried inside, John wanted to stop for a moment, just to let the detective adjust. However, he changed his mind, starting to move right away, when he heard Sherlock's plea of “hard”.   
“Fuck, John... so good...” Sherlock whimpered, when he felt his soldier settling on a maddeningly fast pace, driving him near the edge in seconds. He knew that neither of them would last long and the circumstances weren't suitable for this anyway. 

Sherlock screamed, when John hit his prostate, his vision suddenly becoming blurred. John sensed that Sherlock is way past the point of caring who would see them, but he still wanted to finish this without police coming on them, so John put one of his hands to Sherlock's mouth, silencing him. As soon as the detective felt the doctor's broad hand being placed over his own mouth, he started to moan shamelessly, not even trying to suppress the sounds escaping his body. John, feeling himself nearer to his climax, grasped Sherlock's member with his other hand and started to pump. Sherlock yelled, the sound effectively muffled by John's palm, and grasped the doctor's finger between his teeth.   
“Come for me, Sherlock... I want to see it” he heard John whispering into his ear. He came a moment later, shaking violently, biting hard on the finger that was still inside his mouth. John moaned from pleasure, as Sherlock's muscles tightened around him in a vice grip. He gave the detective two more pushes and then came as well, moaning Sherlock's name and muffling it in the back of the detective's shirt. 

It was only when he came back to the ground that he felt a dull ache in his finger. Opening his eyes he saw Sherlock, still trapped between him and the wall, breathing heavily through his nose, eyes still closed and John's finger stuck between his plush lips. Carefully, he extracted his finger from between the detective's teeth, turned him around and looked into eyes that opened slowly at his ministrations. They smiled simultaneously, shared a soft, sweet kiss and recollected themselves. They headed to the Baker Street, this time without Sherlock pulling them into a darkened alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that would be it for now - next update after Easter. But don't worry, as hard as I love sad endings, this is going to be a happy one, so fear not :) 
> 
> Happy holidays! <3


	8. Shattered surface of the glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where's John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all my lovely readers - sorry to keep you waiting! Have a super-long chapter with some dark revelation at the end :) 
> 
> Thank you and enjoy!

When Sherlock's mobile chimed, he knew immediately who was texting him.

We have four localizations. Come at once - GL 

Sherlock smiled, but soon his smile turned sad. Will they make it on time? Moriarty was a dangerous psychopath, one that could do everything that came to his twisted mind. He wanted to hurt John just to hurt Sherlock by this. Sherlock cursed in his mind, he should know better. Caring really wasn't an advantage, no matter that it gave him something to hold on in his life, a reason to actually live, instead of existing.   
He put on his coat and left Angelo's, heading to the NSY. He will find John. Alive. 

And they'll be living happily ever after. 

As soon as he got there, Lestrade took him to one of the police cars parked outside the building. It was dark already, it started to rain – they needed to hurry up. The air was cooling rapidly, and if John was still mostly naked, he could get into hypothermia. Sherlock winced at this thought, trying to shake it away. He needed his brain now, not his heart. He would use his heart later, when he would have to put John together, after what must had occurred in that bloody warehouse. He looked at Lestrade, who nodded at him, signaling that everyone was ready to go. Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.   
“Go” was all he said. Lestrade started the engine and they headed to first of the localizations, quickly followed by the rest of the police team.

Through all their way, Sherlock was thinking hard, trying to figure out why Moriarty wanted him to believe that John was dead. He could have killed him, which Sherlock refused to believe in, damn the recording. He could have killed John – why bother to play games? There must have been some hidden plan behind it. If he had had Sherlock believing that John was dead, that would mean that he would go mad in a very short period of time. The detective was sure that with the doctor dead, he would turn into a real psychopath, he would be dangerous to people. Maybe Mycroft would have him committed? Locked up in a small room with bars in the window and soft walls... screaming his head out? No, he would be silent. He would lock up in his mind palace and refuse to come back to his real life. Moriarty would be able to use John then, use him to hurt Sherlock further. The detective for sure wouldn't stand his friend's reappearing, coming to him... He would think that he lost his mind finally... He couldn't live without his brain working in the right way so he would most probably commit suicide... Oh, it dawned on Sherlock, that was the criminal's plan... to drive me crazy and make me kill myself...

It took them almost an hour to get to the abandoned warehouse. Sherlock almost flinched when he saw it, the state it was in was horrific. It took the detective only a few seconds to check his surroundings, but he didn't like any of them. Walls were old, scrapped and dirty, unpleasant smell was almost touchable, and when the detective looked at the part covered in shadow, he could easily make out outlines of rats running away because of their sudden appearing. 

Dear God, where did they drag you... he thought bitterly, suddenly realizing that he cared about John a lot more, than he would ever think about. Sherlock knew that he was attracted to John, that there was passion between them. But right now, when he was standing outside that damned warehouse, the only thing he wanted was to take John away from here, tuck him under soft, warm blankets and hold him closely. He wanted to comfort him, to make sure that he was safe, to just cuddle with John Watson, until all this nightmare ended. He smiled a little, thinking about the change in his desires. Some time ago his only wish was a good case, a distraction... then, John Watson appeared in his life and turned it upside-down. He taught him what a friendship is, he showed Sherlock how to take care of people, of their emotions. He made the detective feel and it left Sherlock wondering. Will John care about him forever? Sherlock winced at the thought, it was a stupid thing to ponder. He was sure that he would care about the doctor forever, but can he expect the same? Can he demand it? Sherlock didn't know. He sighed and, with a little help from Lestrade, he forced the door open and went inside. 

The smell there was even worse then outside, rats were running everywhere around them. Sally went with them, while Anderson checked the other location, which was surprisingly near to that one. And for that, Sherlock was glad. The detective didn't want that excuse of a detective anywhere near John, especially now. He looked around carefully, the inside lightened by small, but effective torches they were holding. 

God, the floor was covered with every possible kind of dirt. He wouldn't let a dog walk in here, not to mention a human being. Maybe he should buy John a dog? A small, fluffy and adorable one, just like John himself...He must ask him later, they could afford a dog and if something popped out, they can always manipulate Mycroft to help them.

They moved slowly forward and when Sherlock thought that there is nothing more they can find there, and that maybe they would have to search the other places, he saw a small pool of blood. Not much of it. Smeared a little on the right edge of the stain, already dried.  
“Lestrade!” He barked, the older man quickly appearing by his side, examining the spot. They raised torches and froze. Before them, tied to a chair, thickly covered in blood and visibly shaking was Watson. Sherlock forgot how to breathe for a moment, horror creeping up his guts. He couldn't decide if he was happy that John was alive or terrified by the state he was in. 

Blood. 

There was so much blood. 

Everywhere. 

Under the chair, on his legs, on his arms, on the ropes that were restraining him... Everywhere. They slowly walked up to him, trying to keep the lights out of John's face as much as possible, not to dazzle him. Sherlock was the first one by his side. He knelt down before him, trying to look into his doctor's face, his mind trying to process the sight before his eyes.

“John...” the detective spoke softly, trying as hard as he could to keep his voice calm. John jolted, his head snapped up and looked at Sherlock. Their eyes met and Holmes shuddered, seeing the haunted, frightened look in the ex-soldier's eyes. Whatever that sick bastard had done to John, it must have been horrible. Sherlock had seen John's eyes like this only once – after he had a particularly bad nightmare, from which he awakened screaming out loud, what had woken Sherlock up. 

“John, it's me, you're safe now, okay?” He spoke, his voice still calm, even if his insides started to bubble with anger. He would kill this bastard for doing this to John.   
“Sher...” it was only a sigh, almost a breath, but the detective heard it nonetheless. Looking at the frightened stare in John's eyes, Sherlock felt panic creeping up his spine like a giant, cold snake. What if he couldn't fix this? He moved one of his palms to gently cup John's face, while he ran the other over his knee in a soothing manner. The doctor closed his eyes, trembling and breathing-in sharply. 

“John, it's okay now, we are going to take you out of here, okay? You are safe now...” Sherlock went on in his low voice, not longer sure if it was to comfort John or himself. He felt frightened as a five year old child that was left in the dark alley all alone. Lestrade managed to cut the rope holding John's wrists and his arms fell to his sides. The doctor, after hesitating for a brief moment, wrapped both his bloodied hands around Sherlock and hugged him tightly. 

“You are here” John whispered into the material of the detective's coat, somewhere near his abdomen. The detective's chest tightened and tears made their way to his eyes. He blinked rapidly to shake them away, he wanted to stay strong for John. Sherlock held him for a couple of minutes and then pulled away gently, looking at the soldier's face once more.   
“John, listen to me. Are you hurt?” He watched as John's eyes went wide and silently cursed himself. God, he had to be careful with this, everything could be harmful to him now, his words especially. He didn't want to cause his friend more pain by bringing up terrible memories. “John, we need to take you to the hospital, can you walk?”   
“No...”  
“Okay, we'll get you a stretcher, but you'll need to wait a little for the paramedics...”  
“No!” John shouted and Sherlock fell silent for a moment. 

No... no what? 

“No hospitals... I'm... I'm okay, I'm not hurt...” the doctor said quietly not looking at Sherlock. The detective looked doubtfully at John's body, still covered in thick layer of blood, that started to peel off in a few places. The detective couldn't make out any wounds, but the bloody cover was so thick that he could probably miss even a deep one.  
“John, you should be checked...” Sherlock tried, but was interrupted again.  
“No... please, Sherlock...” John moaned and wrapped his arms around his waist. “They were... dressed like doctors...” the taller man's eyes widened at it. John's words started to sink into his mind and he felt himself becoming more and more mortified. “Please, Sherlock, no medics. I'm not hurt... I'm not... I don't... I... Please!” John sobbed and, without thinking, the detective pulled him into a tight embrace and lifted him from his chair. John moaned, his muscles stiff from staying in the same position for days, protested with a dull ache. His trembling got stronger and he hung on Sherlock's slim form with all his strength. He was so warm, so warm...

“John, you need to be checked out properly... You would do this, if it was me, you know that. Please, John...” Sherlock was getting desperate. John was a doctor, why couldn't he see that it was for his well-being.  
“No... no hospitals” John's body was shivering violently. Sherlock could feel more than hear his sobbing. The detective's heart was torn in half. His mind screamed at him to take John to a doctor, to let medics take care of him... but he couldn't bring himself to cause John more pain. Something must have happened that was connected with doctors, what made John frightened to even think about facing a medic.

“Okay” Sherlock finally rasped, looking at Lestrade over John's shoulder. “You don't want hospitals, there would be none. But you need to be examined properly. You are covered in blood, you are cold and malnourished. Please, let me take you to the paramedics. If they give you a go, then we won't go to the hospital, okay?” He stated with a tone that would make even Mycroft obey. He looked down at the man in his arms, sobbing quietly, then at Lestrade, who was typing on his phone. Sherlock only nodded, when the older man had mouthed “medics”, his attention returning quickly to John. “Can you walk?” He asked and took off his coat, wrapping it tightly around his friend.  
“Yes...” a shuddering whisper.  
“Okay, let's get you out of here...” he started to walk slowly, still holding John, but now with only one arm under the good doctor's shoulder. John suddenly froze in place and Sherlock looked at him startled.   
“Sherlock...” John tried to say something but he couldn't put the words together. Sherlock felt the panic in him raising, looking at John's scared eyes.  
“What is it, John?” He gulped. John was so pale that it was clearly visible in the torch light. He started to tremble again, too, his forehead creased, as if trying to remember and forget something at the same time.  
“Sherlock... I... there...” but he still couldn't formulate the whole sentence. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's body without even realizing it. The doctor sighed and pointed with his head to one of the farest corners, the one they didn't check yet. Sherlock looked at Lestrade - the DI nodded and went to the corner.

John's trembling increased and the detective realized that it may be not only stress, pain and exhaustion but also temperature. John was falling to hypothermia. Sherlock moved forward again, to finally open the door and walk out with John firmly attached to his side. They walked over to the paramedics, who had just arrived, and he sat John on the first step of the ambulance. One of the doctors flinched slightly, seeing the amount of blood on him, but said nothing and looked at Sherlock, waiting for an explanation, why the hell weren't they taking this poor man to the hospital? 

The detective used his most controlled voice to tell them that yes, he wanted to get John to A&E, no, the doctor didn't want to go, yes, he claimed that he wasn't hurt, no, Sherlock didn't want to take him there by the force and no, he wasn't a lunatic. After what seemed like eternity they finally managed to get past the procedures and were sent home. For the whole examination John had been sitting stiff, his back straight, eyes tightly shut and jaw set. He was answering the doctor with groaning and nodding. When they finally finished taking his vitals and confirmed that he wasn't seriously hurt, he lifted himself as quickly as he could and limped with Sherlock to the nearest police car. When inside, he sat quietly, looking out of the window. Sherlock felt that the storm was yet to come, John acting like this meant only one thing: whatever happened there, it must have been incredibly hard for John's mind to get through. Sherlock bit his lip, cursing Moriarty for the hundredth time this evening, and wrapped one hand over John's slightly shaking palm. John jumped at the touch, but relaxed after a while, letting the detective hold his hand and run small circles with his pale thumb. 

“It's okay now, John. You are safe now. I won't let this happen ever again, I promise” Sherlock stated seriously, looking briefly at his companion. John closed his eyes and swallowed hard. He opened them up again and looked at the detective, nodding shortly. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but was interrupted by a soft tap to the window on Sherlock's side of the car. The detective turned his head to find Lestrade looking at him intently, signaling to him to talk outside the car. His face was as serious as Sherlock had ever seen it, and the younger man got out of the car quickly, throwing a glance at John. 

“What is it?”   
“We've found another body in there, Sherlock... In the location John had pointed out” Lestrade stated, his voice serious.  
“A body?”  
“Yes, a male, tied to a chair, horribly mutilated and practically bloodless. He was shot in the leg and in the chest. Lots of abrasions, cuts... His arms were broken, most probably with a hammer...” he trailed off, seeing Sherlock's expression. The detective was even paler than usual, eyes wide and staring into the space.   
“Who did it belong to? Any ID?” He asked, his voice betrayed that he had his suspicions on the matter.   
“No ID, but...” The younger man looked at him sharply. “No ID, but we've found a handwritten note” and he fished a plastic bag with a little, bloodied scrap of paper in it. Sherlock took it and gasped. 

DADDY HAD ENOUGH.  
KEEP YOUR EYES ON YOUR PRIZE.  
JM

Sherlock gave the note back to Lestrade and turned to get back into the car, his jaws tightly clenched. Before he could reach the door handle, however, he felt a strong grip on his shoulder. He looked at the inspector.   
“Sherlock, who was it?” He asked, frowning.  
“John's dad.”


	9. Facing demons in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock being caring...

They spent the ride back to Baker Street in silence. Sherlock has been running through his mind palace, furiously trying to find any traces of danger in their nearest future. John just sat there, at the back of a police car, looking out of the window, his hand grasped in Sherlock's in attempt on grounding himself. 

After they entered the flat, they made their way to the nearest bathroom, where Sherlock started water into the tub. He set on a comfortable temperature, double-checking it, and turned to John. The ex-soldier was still shivering, despite being indoors, completely wrapped up in the detective's coat. His eyes were closed, fists clenched, but his breathing was still under control. Thank god for that. 

Sherlock stepped to him and gently placed both hands on John's upper arms. The shorter man snapped from his state, looked at his companion with big, blue eyes and then threw a glance at the running water.   
“We have to get you cleaned and warmed up, John” Sherlock looked at him softly. John just nodded and started to take off the coat he was wearing. The detective gasped at the amount of blood covering the entirety of his companion's body. There was so much of it that it probably stained his coat. 

Not that Sherlock minded. It was just a piece of clothing. True, it was very valuable to him, every since he has received it from his brother. He liked it very much and he was quite attached to it. But it was just a piece of clothing. He would give everything he had just to get John back, safe and sound. And now that he had, he didn't care about the rest. 

John must had heard his thoughts somehow, for he stopped his movements, looking at the blood-stained fabric of the coat.   
“I'm sorry, Sherlock” he started, but the detective silenced him, placing both hands on his shoulders and squeezing gently.   
“John... don't. It's alright” he said, his voice betraying his emotions.  
“No, really... I didn't mean to ruin your coat. I'll have it dry-cleaned, and if it won't help, then I'll try something... Harry used to know some good cleaners, they could probably help...” he was babbling now, and Sherlock knew it. He also knew what it meant – John was trying to avoid thinking about what happened. And he desperately loved John and he needed him back. His John. The only John he loved.   
“John... please, please look at me” he pleaded with gentle eyes. “It's alright, I don't care about the coat.”  
“But...”  
“No buts. I like it, true, but I don't care about what happens to it as long as I have you here. With me.”  
“But...”  
“JOHN.”  
“Sorry” he coughed awkwardly. Sherlock cringed when he heard the heavy tone in his voice, the coarse creaking at every end of the sounds. He must have been screaming for a long time, the detective thought, and it made him want to murder everyone, who had been responsible for this.   
“Stop being sorry, John. Please... It's not your fault. Nothing that has happened is your fault. Come on, I want to wash you, get you into bed and sleep everything off. How does that sound?” He asked, taking the coat from his doctor and lowering his underwear, the only thing John was wearing when they had found him. The doctor just nodded and let himself be guided.

“Sherlock?” A small whisper got to his ears when he was carefully lowering the smaller man in the tub.   
“Yes?” The detective started to gently pour warm water over John, using his elegant, nimble palms. The whole tub slowly tinted an alarming shade of pink, the blood that had been washed off started to dissolve in the water. Sherlock gasped in relief when he found out that John's body was practically uninjured. He had some minor incisions, a few bruises and split lip, but these were mainly the effect of struggling and fighting back. The majority of the violence had been focused on the other man...

Sherlock shivered. He had to talk with John at some point. They had to establish what happened there, and as much as he didn't want to have this conversation, he was aware that it was necessary. John's voice brought him back to reality.

“Sherlock, my... my dad” John struggled for words, trying not to panic. “My dad was there... He... Sherlock, he is dead...” the good doctor's voice trailed off, almost breaking at the last part of the sentence. The detective sighed and put his arms around the trembling form of his friend, still seated in the bathtub. The embrace was awkward, with Sherlock's knees bent in a strange way and John crushed between his arms and the side of the tub, but he needed it more than the ex-soldier himself. When the taller man realized how close he had been to losing his friend, his love, he himself started to shiver and mumble apologies.   
“I'm sorry, John... I should have found you earlier, I should have been faster, cleverer... sorry, I'm so sorry...” he buried his nose in his doctor's wet hair, inhaling the scent of John, of home and danger. The top of the doctor's head was the only part of him that hadn't been covered in blood. Sherlock was inhaling the pure essence of John, desperately trying to ignore the still-bloodied body. 

“You know, right?” The blond man mumbled into his neck, and Sherlock moved away a little to look at him. He soon found that he couldn't even briefly look John in the eye, so he settled his sight on his lips. It was the safest place right now.   
“Yes. Lestrade told me... God, I'm so sorry, John. I should have done something earlier... I'm sorry...” He proceeded to wash his army doctor, as gently as he could. John seemed to relax a little.  
“It's not your fault, Sherlock. He is a madman. I don't know why my father...” he trailed off, clearly remembering what happened. When Sherlock smoothed his hand across his back, he came back again. “...but I'm glad that you've found me, you know? Really glad... Thank you” he finished the sentence whispering, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. The detective took his chin in his gentle fingers and lifted his doctor's head.   
“I couldn't let him kill you. I wouldn't survive it. And you know it...”  
“But...”  
“Shh...” And with that Sherlock dipped his head down and kissed John tenderly. It was a chaste kiss, just a meeting of lips, slightly lingering, but it was everything they needed now. It was not supposed to be erotic, because there was no need for that. 

John sighed and leaned forward, placing his forehead on the detective's shoulder.   
“Bed?” He asked, his voice small and tired. Sherlock only nodded, quickly finishing his job and trying to help John from the tub. The ex-soldier was exhausted, but he still rejected any help. He was not a helpless child and he needed to prove it, even if only to himself. 

Once John got to bed, he quickly pulled on his pajama bottoms, not bothering to put on any top or t-shirt. He flopped down onto bed and looked at his friend with big eyes.  
“Will you-” he stopped mid-sentence, not sure if he wanted to finish it, or to take it back. How could a grown-up, ex-army doctor ask for a company in his own bed, because he is scared of nightmares? He bit hie lower lip and waited for something to happen.   
“John, I'm going to put my coat and your boxers into the washing machine, check the doors to make sure that we are safe, wash myself, and then I'm going to come back here and stay for the night” the detective seemed to read John's mind. “How does it sound to you?” He asked, already starting in the direction of the bathroom. John just nodded, mumbling a small 'thank you' and lied down on the bed. 

When Sherlock finished everything exactly twelve minutes later, he found his friend curled up on his side, facing away, shaking visibly. He quickly got under the covers and buried his face in John's neck, breathing in and out to steady his own mind. His heart was aching to see his dear friend in such state, and Sherlock swore then that he would find a way to make things better. He needed John to be good, and the young man was surprised to find out about his feelings. He felt just how much he cared about John, his feelings showing him the power of psychosomatic pain that was currently manifesting itself in his chest. He moved his arms, wrapping his long limbs around his friend and hugging him tightly. 

The doctor let out a single sob and trembled even more, curling up on himself and hiding his head between his shoulders. Sherlock leaned forward, nuzzling his nose in John's hair, just behind the sensitive shell of his ear.   
“John...” it was everything and nothing at the same time. In his name, Sherlock managed to hide his love, his devotion, his life, his admiration and fear for John. There was also the sureness, the confirmation that he would be with his love till the end of their time. That he, Sherlock Holmes, the Consulting Detective, will love John Watson, will be with him and will gladly give his life just to keep him safe. 

John turned around and looked the detective in the eye. Now it was Sherlock's turn to shiver. John's eyes were like those of a haunted man, followed by a thousand ghosts.   
“John, what happened there?” The detective asked in a soft voice, his hands wandering the expanse of John's back, mapping every scar, older and newer ones. The doctor swallowed thickly, trying to relax a little in caressing hands of his partner.   
“It was horrible, Sherlock...” John shifted a little closer to the warm body lying next to him and buried his head in the space between the other man's head and shoulder. One of the detective's hands traveled up and his fingers tangled in John's soft, short hair. He sighed delicately. “He must have drugged me with something... I woke up tied up to that bloody chair. We... talked. Well, he was doing most of the talking while I was listening patiently. He then brought a second chair... and...” John's voice broke and he groaned into Sherlock's neck. The younger man waited patiently for him to continue. When he finally did, Sherlock's blood froze in his veins. 

“When he settled the second chair to the ground, he signaled to the other man, and he walked away. After a short moment he... he came back. He was dragging an unconscious body with him and seated it on the other chair. When the light coming from the other window shone upon that man's face...” John sobbed. “It was my father, Sherlock. My father!” He moaned it, rather than exclaiming and fisted both his hands in the duvet. “Then Moriarty laid his plan before me and... I just wanted him to kill me then and there.”  
“He used your father against both of us” it was a calm statement, and Sherlock was proud that his voice didn't shake.  
“Yes” John breathed, clenching and unclenching his hands. “He told me that he wanted to distract you... what did he mean? Sherlock?” The detective swallowed thickly.   
“He wanted to keep me occupied” he closed his eyes feeling the shiver running down John's body.  
“He wanted to what? He is a madman, Sherlock, and you are playing his sick games just to avoid boredom?” He asked bitterly, minimally shifting away from his friend's warm body and turning on his other side, facing away. If he was playing with Moriarty and the stake was his father's life, he didn't want to be near him. Not now. But the detective wrapped his arms tighter around him and pulled him back, spooning him neatly.   
“No, John... I didn't know what the stake was, until Lestrade told me. It was after we had already rescued you that I knew... God, I'm so sorry...” and Sherlock shuffled even closer, nuzzling John's neck. “I would never take such risk to gain any kind of distraction. Never. No you, not the ones you love.” 

Te doctor felt silent, but his chest heaved several times and a soft sob escaped his lips.  
“John?” Sherlock sounded concerned and if the situation hadn't been one from a nightmare, the ex-soldier would probably laugh out loud. “John.”  
“You know” John turned around, his eyes lowered, “the thing is, I didn't love him. He was just my father, but he was never a 'dad' to me. I didn't love him, he was...” he broke, voice heavy with emotions. “He was terrible, Sherlock. He would never be content with what I did... He wanted me to be a politician, or a lawyer... When I announced that I'm going to be a doctor, he was not really happy about it. When I said that I had enlisted to the British Army, he was furious.”  
“Why?” The detective asked, and he really wanted this answer. He couldn't understand why anybody would not be happy with John the Doctor, or John the Soldier. He was so brave and good. And extraordinarily skilled, too.   
“Well, he wanted me to get a boring job, to be rich... But even then I didn't want an ordinary life. I wanted adrenaline, action...” he sighed.   
“I knew it in an instant” the taller man smirked. “You cannot live without danger.”  
“Yes. Well, I knew it back then. My dad was not happy, as you can imagine. He disinherited me and excluded me from the family, along with Harry, because she was a drinker already, and because she is homosexual... I went to Afghanistan and you know the rest of the story...” He trailed off and felt the other man give a nod. He pushed one of his legs between Sherlock's and closed his eyes. “You want to know what happened there, don't you?” he asked in a bitter tone, but there was no accusation. Sherlock nodded. “Well, when I heard his plan...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I seriously need your help! I’m writing BA thesis and I need to do a quick research. Who would I ask if not my beloved Sherlockians, my brothers-in-arms? 
> 
> The question is simple: what idioms or metaphors connected with colors do you use most (such as white as a sheet or feeling blue), how old are you and what country are you from? Could you please answer this one simple question, and thus help me tremendously, here in comments or on my mail, anonymously? tiofrean@vp.pl 
> 
> Please, help? It will take only a minute or so, but I will be of great help to me and it would considerably speed up my writing, as I have to finish that chapter of my BA before I write anything else (and it concerns this fic, too)...


	10. Try to remember when the stars shone bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some morning smutty goodness for all lovely responses on my previous question. Sherlock and John reunite after their separation.

Earlier in the warehouse.

Everything hurt. His ribs, his muscles, his back, his arms... but most of all – his head. God, did it hurt... that throbbing, pulsing kind of pain that made focusing on anything impossible. 

John moaned and tried to move a little, to assess his position and his chances. He couldn't move much, his arms were bound behind his back. He was sitting on some kind of chair, it appeared to be wooden, but it was undoubtedly a solid one. He looked around, seeing nothing but the darkness and just a little part of the floor that was illuminated by the pillar of light landing directly at him. 

Suddenly he heard that voice. That Irish, playful, sing-song voice that was haunting him in his dreams every since the events at the pool. He tried to turn his head around a little, to look at the madman better, but his neck hurt too much for that. 

“Hello, Johnny-boy” the criminal greeted him. “I'm sorry to drag you away from your detective, but that was rather my point” he smiled, looking at John like a predator would at his prey.   
“What the bloody hell do you want?” John asked, but his voice was cold. He didn't want to show any emotions in that minute, that would be no good. He started to struggle, but he knew that it would lead him nowhere.   
“Well, I want our precious detective to stop observing my every move... You see, I have a rather big job to do right now, and I don't want Sherlock to become interested in it. So...” he opened his arms, stepping into the circle of light surrounding John. “So I borrowed you.”  
“I won't help you” the doctor spat, but he stopped struggling. There was no use. And this was Moriarty – if he wanted John tied, then tied John shall stay.   
“That's what I thought. But don't worry, lovely, I have a good incentive for you...” he snapped his fingers and the ex-soldier heard some shuffling in the darkness. Soon enough, a second ray of light appeared and in it's middle, there was a figure sitting, tied to chair like the doctor himself.   
“Look who's here, Johnny-boy...” Moriarty almost leered, and John strained his eyes to see the face of the other man. As soon as he did, he looked at the criminal, who was now smiling widely, and gasped loudly. 

“You can't.”  
“No, of course I can. In fact, I'm going to.”  
“Why?” The doctor asked, his blood suddenly cold as ice. He felt hot and cold at the same time, his limbs numb, but still somehow pulsing.  
“Because I want you to cooperate with me” Moriarty stepped closer to John. “And now...” he took a small tape-recorder out of his pocket and pressed rec, “say hello to Sherlock, or your father will say hello to Sebastian's knife” he finished the sentence almost cheerfully, and John watched with horror as a tall, blonde man stepped next to his father and took out a big, military knife. 

 

“John” a warm voice. 

“John” a concerned voice.

“John!”  
“Oi, Sherlock!” He jolted, sitting upright. “What's going on?” It was still dark everywhere... Night, then.  
“You were shouting” the detective was looking at him cautiously, his posture leaning toward his friend, propped up on his right arm, left gripping John's shoulder.   
“What?” John flopped down on the bed. God, he was exhausted.   
“We were talking, you started to describe what happened there, then you've fallen asleep and you had a nightmare. You were shouting and repeating 'no' all the time” Sherlock shifted closer to him and wrapped him in his long limbs. John turned to him and buried his face in the crook of the younger man's neck.   
“Where did I stop?” he asked, voice muffled in Sherlock's pale skin.  
“You... you described how he brought hammer and broke your father's arms...” the detective swallowed convulsively and hugged John tighter. “The screams that were recorded... it wasn't you, was it?” John shook his head.   
“Only part of them. The majority was my father...” John hiccuped and Sherlock hushed him.   
“That's why everyone had been thinking it was you... You have such a similar voice” the detective pondered.  
“Yes, it must be family thing... Oh god...” John fell silent, pulling himself away from Sherlock and looking at him with wild eyes. The taller man looked at him with concern written clearly on his handsome face. “I have to tell my family, Sherlock!” The doctor cried, his voice miserable. The detective could almost see the weight resting on his doctor's shoulders.   
“John, I could send Mycroft to inform your family, he is good in such things...”  
“No.”  
“But if you don't feel....”  
“I said no, Sherlock. I will do this, I have to do this” he swallowed and closed his eyes. Sherlock appeared to be thinking something over in his mind.  
“John?”  
“Mhm?”  
“Will it help... do you want me to go with you?” He asked, his voice trembling slightly. He didn't want to leave John alone with this, he knew very well that his friend, no matter how brave he was, he was still only a human. And an almost broken one, as it was now.   
“Will you?” The blond man looked at him, gratitude shining in his eyes for a split second, before it was replaced with doubt and fear. “You don't have to, you know...”  
“But I don't want to leave you with this. I love you, John, I would give my life for you” the detective embraced him tightly. “Going to your family house with you is nothing. I would run away with you to an abandoned island in the middle of Atlantic Ocean, if it would make you happy” he pulled his lover's body close to him.  
“Thank you” John smiled a little, when he felt an affectionate nuzzle of the detective's cold nose on his neck. “Sherlock!” He tried to escape the chilly flesh rubbing insistently at his warm skin.  
“John, it's hardly my fault that the air outside the duvet is cold. My nose has apparently frozen.”  
“Come here, you git” and the doctor placed his warm palm on Sherlock's face, rubbing his thumb over the cold nose. Sherlock grinned. “You really are like a big cat sometimes, you know?”   
“Hmm” the detective closed his eyes. 

“Sherlock?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Thanks...”  
“Sleep, John.”  
When they woke up the next morning, Sherlock was still holding John tightly in his embrace. The doctor huffed a little, tensed and relaxed, shifting minutely in his arms. He opened his eyes just to be faced with green-gray stare, boring into him.   
“Hello” he murmured and buried his face into the taller man's neck. Sherlock hummed contently and ran his hands up John's sides. He felt a little shudder making its way through the doctor's body and he grazed the skin lightly with his nails. Soon Sherlock felt a pair of hot lips pressed to his neck, a tip of the tongue poking from between them to flick gently over the sensitive surface.   
“John?” He asked, his voice a raspy rumble due to the hours of sleep. The smaller man just hummed, one deft hand wandering on the detective's chest. He sighed and moved a little backwards, looking at John. The man was still sleepy, his warm body pliant and vulnerable next to Sherlock's lean frame. He shifted a little and brought his right arm up, to slide his thumb gently over the blond man's cheek.   
“John, look at me, please” he asked in a soft tone and reluctantly, John brought his blue gaze up, looking him in the eyes. The detective just stared into the two pools of the finest blue he had ever seen, contemplating something quickly without a word. Then, seeing the doctor's questioning expression, he just shook his head and leaned to catch his lips in a kiss. It was gentle, yet promising, and John felt another shiver lighting up his nerve endings. He shifted a little, bringing his hips in contact with Sherlock's jutting hipbones and moaned quietly feeling the hard line of the other man's arousal. 

“What do you want?” The taller man gasped, feeling his head spinning and his own body getting warmer. God, he missed it... the contact with John, his body, his soul, his mind... John's hand's slowly drawing circles on his back and abdomen, their legs entangled beneath the warm sheets, John's hard manhood pressing into the junction of his thigh.  
“Touch me, Sherlock... Any way you like, just touch me...” he said quietly, shyly. Hie eyes casting down and his hands slowed a little in their journey over the pale skin. Sherlock brought his hand to John's chin, lifting it gently and placing a sweet little kiss at his lips.  
“I love you” he whispered and deepened the kiss, his eager tongue making its way to the doctor's mouth, making him gasp. Soon the passion between them was white-hot, as they nibbled and sucked on each others lips, fingers agile and searching. Sherlock rolled them both, placing his doctor neatly on his back and gently running both hands up and down his sides a few times. John's hips bucked upwards at their own accord and he moaned throatily. The detective quickly disposed them of their pajama pants and produced a small bottle of lubricant from their bedside table. He looked at John, happy sparks in his eyes, and poured a big dollop on his palm. Sherlock rubbed his fingers together to warm the liquid and, placing a chaste kiss on his lover's lips, he reached behind himself to worm two fingers into his own entrance. 

John growled, seeing this amazing spectacle, Sherlock with his eyes closing and mouth gaping as he twisted two of his long digits inside himself. John reached his own hands to hold the man squirming on his lap, providing further leverage for the tall body. The detective moaned faintly, John's name a mantra on his lust-colored lips and leaned forward, resting his weight on John's hands that were gripping his shoulders tightly.  
“John...” he buried his head in the older man's neck and breathed harshly as he entered himself with the third finger. John soothed his back, hands splayed widely over the perfect expanse of skin, an murmured to his ear quietly.  
“God, I love you... I thought that I would never see you again, you know?”  
“Don't...” The detective warned, his voice wavering. He took out his fingers and shifted higher, knees hugging John near his ribs. “When I heard that recording...” he gripped the lube again and slicked John, giving his member a few strokes. The doctor moaned at this, hips canting upwards and eyes trying to close on their own accord. But he forced them open to look into Sherlock's eyes.   
“I didn't want you to hear it...”  
“I know... John...” he moaned, gripping the doctor tightly in his palm and lining him up with his hole. He looked down at John, his eyes burning with desire and need and something akin to fright, when he remembered how close to loosing this man he had been. John couldn't help but growl, when Sherlock's flesh encompassed him, the head of his cock sliding into the tight heat of the detective's body. Sherlock shuddered above him, muscles shifting under the pale skin.  
“Don't go, John... don't leave me...” he sank down in one swift move, burying John to the hilt. “Don't leave me ever again. Never, do you hear me? Never...”

And Sherlock felt two strong hands griping his head tightly, bringing him down for a bruising kiss, felt the hard flesh pulsing within him, sending sparks flying through the whole of his body, he felt the lips kissing his own mouth, tasting salty and sweet at the same time. He moved a little and was rewarded with a sharp inhale of air from beneath him. He kissed John again, his own hands landing near John's head, while the doctor's squeezed and scratched his flesh. He felt so alive with John's moans and groans, with his heart beating under his own...

They moved in unison, take and give, take and give, until it was all too much. Sherlock groaned low in his throat, pushing his head into the pillow next to John's neck and wrapped his long arms around his doctor, his hips never ceasing the frantic pace. He turned his face to John's ear and whispered sweet nothings, punctuated by obscenities, just to have the pleasure of seeing John coming apart. One of the doctor's hands moved between them and gripped him tightly. Sherlock arched his back with a mewl.  
“Fuck! John...”  
“God, Sherlock... come on... I want to see you come like this...” he started to move his palm in a quick pace, not surprised when the great detective started to fuck his fist, trembling all over.  
“Yes... John... please!”  
“Shh...” John sped up his hand on Sherlock's member, placing his other tightly around his back.  
“Johnnnn...” it was a howled plea and John couldn't resist. He ran his thumb across the head of the detective's cock several times and Sherlock tensed all over. John leaned in and bit him on the shoulder, when he felt his muscles clench down on his shaft. With a flood of soft moans of “John, John, John, John, John....” Sherlock came, the doctor following swiftly after him. He gripped the detective, refusing to ever let go, whispering his own litany of “I love you” and “Sherlock” into the other man's ear. 

It took them a while to come down from the high, their bodies limp and sated, their minds focused only on them. Smiling slightly John propped up on one elbow and looked down at Sherlock, who smiled in return. They shared a quick kiss and made their way to the shower. They had to face the day and all the hard things it would bring, but the morning was still early and they were happy with that. At least for the time being.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I got short of written chapters, so you'll have to wait a little longer for the next one. But it's not the end yet, more angst and some serious hurt/comfort will follow. 
> 
> Thank you!


	11. When day is crushing into night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock got ill when he and John went to inform Mrs. Watson about his father's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes longer to write because of the school. But while I'm working on the next chapter, I wanted to give you something to read now. So here it is, super-short, but necessary. Also, I think I will be able to wrap it up in a chapter or two, so you can almost see the end now :)
> 
> Enjoy!

John woke up to a pair of delicate hands caressing his back. He groaned, trying to snuffle his way back into the dream-land. But the hands were insistent on waking him fully and soon enough a pair of lips joined them in their quest. He stirred and opened his eyes slowly. Sherlock was lying next to him, his green-gray gaze boring into John's blue one.   
“What time is it?” He asked, his voice creaky and sleep-filled.  
“Almost eleven o'clock” the taller man answered, running his hand through the doctor's dishwater hair. John yawned, feeling too comfortable to move just yet.   
“I don't want to get up...” he said, more to himself than to his companion.  
“We have to, though.”

And then it all came crashing back, the time he spent in that bloody warehouse, his pleas and screams, his father... John closed his eyes, willing all the memories to go away, to leave him the hell alone. But he couldn't. Nor could he wish away what he had to do today, and it made the urge within him to cry unbearable. He snuggled close to Sherlock, breathing in his calming scent and put his own arms around the detective.  
“Come on, we have to get up eventually” Sherlock said, but he seemed unconvinced himself.   
“Eventually...” John huffed, kissing his neck lightly.

Two hours later they were seated in the train to John's family house. The doctor was looking through the old car's window at the changing landscape. It was quite beautiful, actually... little trees, fields that were green with fresh grains... They successfully took his mind off all the things he had to do. Sherlock watched him closely in silence. The calmness and composure of his friend and lover was admirable, as well as his strength. The detective agreed to come with him the day before, but he didn't actually think that John would agree to his idea. He was a soldier, after all, and Sherlock knew only too well that he didn't like to share his weakness with anybody, let alone him. Yet, John agreed and the relief the detective saw in his eyes served as a proof of how hard it was for his doctor to ace it all. And the detective wanted to be there with him, if not to do the speaking, then at least to hold his hand and comfort him. 

It took them exactly two hours to get to the house, a nice tiny cottage in the suburbs. When they were getting out of the train, John spotted something in the appearance of the detective what spurred his inner doctor into action.  
“Do you feel well?” He asked and Sherlock paused in taking out their luggage.   
“What do you mean?” Oh, he knew exactly what John meant, but he would never admit it.  
“You look unwell... do you have a fever?” John asked, helping him with their cases. They took only two, one for Sherlock and one for John, only necessary change of clothes and some toiletries for two-three-day stay.   
“No.”  
“Don't lie to me, Sherlock Holmes. You may be the greatest consulting detective, but I am an ex-army doctor and I can recognize fever when I see one” Sherlock just bit his lip at this, looking to the side. He had a slight fever, but he put it down on tiredness caused by the recent events.  
“Since yesterday evening, I think” he answered, looking at John finally.   
“Why didn't you say something?” The doctor asked. He hadn't taken his medical bag with them when they were packing earlier this morning.   
“I didn't want to worry you, John. Besides it is probably only a cold, nothing to worry about” he fought the urge to roll his eyes. The doctor was always too caring.  
“Let me be the judge of that, doctor, remember?” John had the audacity to roll his eyes, what he did. They made their way through the station and to the nearest cab. It took them another half an hour, before they finally planted their feet at Watson's homestead. 

“John!” A lady, probably sixty year's old came to meet them as soon as they got out of the cab.  
“Hi, mum” John hugged her, his eyes sad and his posture hunched a little. Sherlock gritted his teeth – it was unfair for such a good man to be faced with such nasty things. The detective himself wasn't really a faint-hearten creature, but even he could see the amount of atrocity John's got through. They didn't really speak about what happened in the warehouse, apart from the things John said on his own will. Sherlock had enough powers to deduce the horrors his lover endured and he didn't want John to go through this all the way again, even if only in his mind.   
“Good God, John... Did you know? Your father is missing...” the lady appeared to be genuinely concerned and Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly. He didn't do emotions and taking a part in this... reunion, was beyond his area. Plus his head started to ache.  
“Yes, mummy...” John looked at the detective briefly. “That's why we're here...”  
“We? Oh, of course... Sorry, Mr....”  
“Sherlock Holmes” the detective offered his hand and was rewarded with a shaky squeeze from Mrs. Watson.   
“This is my friend and colleague” John offered by the way of explanation. Sherlock swallowed hearing the word “colleague” and wanted to fix the mistake, to say that they were in fact lovers, but something at the back of his mind told him not to. After a moment he remembered that John mentioned his family being homophobic, what apparently caused Harry a lot of troubles. 

God, the pain inside Sherlock's skull increased and he swore in his mind. He had definitely caught something. Maybe John's mother would have some paracetamol? He had to ask her later.  
“Mum, can we get inside? It's not a talk we would like to have here...” John shifted, looking at his mother. She nodded and ushered them inside, showing them a place to leave their luggage. 

“What is it, Johnny?” His mother asked with concern. Sherlock fought the urge to roll his eyes. John was not a child anymore. Besides, this variant of his name has been abused by Moriarty a little too much.  
“Mum, you should sit down.”  
“What is it?” She started to grasp the seriousness of this at last. Good, Sherlock thought and immediately scolded himself in his mind. Why didn't he like her so much? It was hard to tell...  
“Mum... Father... he...” John couldn't finish the sentence. Sherlock did it for him.  
“Mr. Watson passed away, Mrs. Watson.”

The gasp and wild cry that escaped his mother made John wince. He closed his eyes tightly and his hands clenched into fists, when his mother threw herself at him, practically hanging onto his exhausted body. Sherlock took a step closer to help John, if he happened to loose the balance, but the soldier stood still. 

After some time, during which all three of them migrated to the sofa, Mrs. Watson has cried a sea of tears and John tried to soothe her as best as he could, they decided to call his sister. Harry, to their surprise, answered her phone quickly and, hearing the bad news, promised to come as soon as possible. It took her almost two hours to get there, but soon she was hugging her mother tightly, not really crying herself, but looking sad and shocked nonetheless. Sherlock excused himself to the toilet and, closing the door, sat heavily on the edge of the tub. His head hurt, the vision started to sway at some point during Harry's arrival and he was extremely cold. 

“Sherlock?” John's voice made its way through the door and soon the barrier disappeared. The doctor stood on the threshold looking worried.   
“Yes?” Sherlock could hear his own voice tremble and he winced a little.   
“God, you look half-dead” John stepped closer, the door shutting behind him. He kneeled before the detective and touched his forehead with his hand. Sherlock sighed as John's cool hand touched his heated skin.   
“Jesus, you are burning up...” John looked at him with worry.   
“I'm aware” the detective sighed again.   
“You're shivering... How long?”  
“Harry's arrival” Sherlock managed. He had difficulties in keeping his muscles from moving, little tremors were running up and down his arms while the rest of his body was trembling visibly.   
“Okay, wait a minute here, alright?” John got to his feet and marched out of the bathroom. He reappeared after a minute and hauled Sherlock up.

“You're going to the bed. No arguments” he held up his finger, seeing Sherlock ready to fight over it. “You are shaking like a leaf and you are as pale as a sheet. No excuses, you are going to stay in bed until it goes away” he steered the detective out of the tiny bathroom and into his former bedroom. The bed was already made to sleep in, Sherlock's pajama fished out of his luggage. They were going to stay here for the night anyway. The detective changed quickly, swearing at how cold he felt, feeling his body tremble violently, and got under the covers. He watched John move around, absentmindedly answering his questions. 

“Any muscle pain?”  
“Yes.”  
“Headache?”  
“Yes.”  
“Problems breathing?”  
“No.”  
“Vision distortion?”  
“The light's too bright”  
“Dizziness? Nausea?”  
“Yes and yes...” 

John gave him a check over and Sherlock, being too exhausted and way to comfortable under the warm duvet, let him do whatever he pleased. Once finished, the doctor sat on the edge of the bed and gave him three pills and some lemon-flavored soda to drink.   
“Congratulations. You've got a flu. And I think one hell of a migraine” he eyes Sherlock sharply, but there was also something soft underneath. It made Sherlock strangely warm inside. He eyed the pills before he took them, looking at John expectantly.   
“Paracetamol with caffeine and vitamin C. Should help, but I will check on you in the next half an hour. Try to sleep a little, okay?” John placed his hand on his forehead again, and Sherlock moaned his understanding.   
“Stay...” the detective breathed, when his friend, his lover, got up from the bed.   
“I have to come back to them, Sherlock. I'll be just behind the wall, and I'll come back in a moment to check on you, alright?” He asked, trying to reason, but he knew well what he wanted to do. All he craved right now was to climb into that bed with Sherlock and hold him close. He needed this, too, but he knew they couldn't do what they pleased here. His mother still was homophobic, she would be furious, and he didn't want that now. Not now, when he told her about his father's death, not when Sherlock was too weak to defend himself against her verbal abuse. Not, when John was so exhausted that he could fall asleep standing. 

Sherlock nodded and said that he understood, because he did. He was a big boy and he could handle something as trivial as flu alone. Besides, John was right, he would be right behind the wall if he needed him. The doctor gave him a soft kiss on the lips and walked to the other room, leaving the door to his bedroom opened a fraction. Sherlock could hear John's voice this way and it lulled him to sleep faster than he thought. He snuffled into John's pajamas that he apparently taken out as well, and surrounded by his doctor's smell, he drifted off.


	12. We won't stay back, we'll stand and fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for homophobia.

Sherlock woke up some time later, feeling some shifting on the bed beside him. He opened his eyes with difficulty, the eyelids felt as stones. There was John sitting on the bed beside him, looking at the detective with soft but tired eyes. It was dark in the room, which was illuminated by the soft glow flowing from the streetlamps. Sherlock groaned softly by the way of greeting and John smiled gently hearing this.  
“How do you feel?” He asked in a hushed tone.  
“Crappy” came Sherlock's quiet answer. The fever reduced his dictionary to the simplest expressions.   
“You look like shit” John chuckled and the detective scowled at him.   
“You're not far off... how is the family?” Sherlock cleared his throat at the end, his voice raspy from the fever.  
“Well, mother is currently past the point of crying, my long-since-gone uncle arrived some time ago and was quite angry, when I told him how my father died... And Harry, well, Harry is Harry. She seemed more concerned with me, than with our father...” the doctor sighed. His sister didn't really like their father, maybe it was the emotional coldness of him, maybe the fact that she was homosexual... or drinker. Or both.   
“You told your uncle how your father died?” Sherlock's eyes widened a little at that.   
“Well... not every detail, just main things” John swallowed and closed his eyes.   
“God... How do you feel?” Sherlock asked.  
“Are you really interested in my feelings?” John asked actually surprised, but there was no venom to his words, his voice still gentle and soft.  
“Of course!” The detective exclaimed, as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world that he, Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed sociopath, cared about anyone's feelings.  
“I don't know... I'm exhausted” the doctor admitted, closing his eyes again.  
“Come here” the taller man scooted backwards and made some space for John to lie in. The doctor took of his slippers and jumper, and crawled into his lover's embrace. He snuggled close to Sherlock and wrapped his own arms around the lanky body. The detective hummed his approval and kissed the top of John's head. 

They fell asleep like that, John still almost fully clothed and Sherlock hugging him tightly, one hand in his hair, the other around his middle. When John started to trash and moan in his sleep, the detective woke immediately. He tried to bring John back to consciousness, but with his own state of mind – the fever was still torturing him, though a little less – he couldn't do much. John moved restlessly until at some point he woke up with a shout. Sherlock tried to pull him back, calm him, but he was interrupted by the sharp light appearing all around them. 

“My God! What is going on?” John's mum was standing in the entrance to their room, one hand braced on the half-opened door, the other reaching for the light switch. Sherlock squinted his eyes closed, the abrupt appearance of brightness making his head explode with pain. Through the haze, he could feel John shifting away from him, scrambling back over the edge of the bed. The detective moaned, pressing both palms to his eyes and trying to turn away.   
“What happened?” A male voice made its way through the door and soon there was John's uncle standing and watching them with increasing frown. Sherlock managed to open his eyes, groaning from the pain that was still clawing at his brain and looked up at the doorway, then at John, sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands.   
“It's okay... I just... It's okay” the doctor mumbled through his fingers, hunching a little.   
“I heard a scream” mummy continued. “Was it you, John?”  
“Yeah... I...” he swallowed once, twice. “I had a nightmare. That's all” he finished, looking away. Sherlock could tell from the tension in his jaw, from his wary look that John was not only distressed, but hugely embarrassed. He attempted to bring the doctor's attention on himself, he wanted to let him know that everything was okay. But it was quite difficult to do, with his body twisting involuntarily away from the piercing brightness.   
“John...” Sherlock reached for him, placing one gentle hand on the doctor's knee. John looked up at him and for that brief moment Sherlock could see all emotions flying through John, painted in his features.   
“You had a nightmare?” Mrs. Watson inquired. “Why... why here? You were sleeping here?”  
“Ha!” The uncle exploded. “I told you! He was sleeping here! With HIM!” He pointed one accusing finger on the detective. “They are both deviants! I'm sure they are fucking each other! And in your own house!” He continued, making John's mum gasp, her eyes going wide as saucers.   
“Please, we weren't doing anything!” John raised his voice, his emotions making him past the point of caring.  
“And how would we know? You were sleeping here!” His uncle went on, making his mother delirious. She started to dart her eyes from John to Sherlock, and the detective himself started to feel the rage bubbling within him.   
“As you kindly pointed out, we were SLEEPING!” John shouted, raining from his place on the edge of the bed. Sherlock tried to grasp his arm, but the doctor yanked it free. “What is your problem?!” John continued in the direction of his uncle.  
“YOU ARE!” The man shouted back, throwing his arms in the air. “First you tell us that my dear brother is gone and he” another finger pointed on Sherlock “is at least partly responsible for this-”  
“I NEVER SAID SUCH THING!”   
“-then you go to be with this... this...” the uncle found himself at a loss of words. John started to count to ten in his head, just to calm himself a little.  
“This PERVERT!” He cried triumphantly, still pointing at the detective. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but a sudden yell from the corridor interrupted him.

“What the HELL is going on?” 

Harry. Sherlock closed his mouth, John – his eyes. 

“What the hell are you doing? It's fucking four in the morning, I want to sleep!” She burst into the room, accidentally elbowing her uncle. She took in the miserable look on their mother's face, Sherlock's shock and John's anger. “John?” She went to him, trying to make him look into her eyes. “What the hell have you done to him?” She asked, after her attempts failed. John was still glaring at their uncle.  
“Nothing!” The man cried. “He is a bloody pervert! Just like his lover, this... FREAK!” 

If you asked John Watson what excuse he had to do what he did, he wouldn't tell you. If you asked him about the number of people who tried to stop him, he wouldn't tell you. If you asked him if his mother cried or shouted in that very second, he wouldn't tell you. Because John Watson wouldn't remember such minor details, not when he was standing over his uncle, who was currently gripping his bleeding nose.   
“John!” Harry went to him, holding him back and trying to calm him. Sherlock shifted to the edge of the bed and attempted to hold John's other hand, while he was still glaring at his uncle. He spoke, his voice ice-cold and gravy.

“My father died, because there was a maniac, who wanted to kill him! If it hadn't been for Sherlock, I would be dead, too. And I'm not saying this, because I want to make things look better. They are fucked up as they are! I don't care how much you hate gays, I am one of them, and you have to live with it. You may like it, or not, but I will never - do you hear me? - never let you call him a freak again! He saved my life more times than I can tell! And yes, he is gay! And so am I! And I love him, and nothing you could say will change it!”  
“But... B-b-but John! Your father....!”  
“But WHAT MY FATHER?” John roared, stepping forward. “He was just that, my father! That doesn't mean that he was a good one! He didn't want me or Harry in this family, because we were different! Because we wanted to live in our way! I didn't...” the doctor's voice trembled and he felt a strong shudder running through his body. “I didn't want him to die.... I didn't want to see it happen... But I did! And I'm not unaffected by it...” he blinked rapidly, feeling the moisture on his eyelashes starting to gather. “...but you didn't do anything to help! Since you've come here, you're only asking about my life, about what I do, and complaining that I hadn't done as my father told me... I'm fucking sick of it! If you didn't want me here, you could have told me! I didn't want to come here, either!” John slumped back down on the side of the bed and felt Sherlock running his hand along his spine, pressing softly, soothingly. He turned hi head around to look at the detective.  
“Let's go home, John” Sherlock asked softly and, seeing John nod slowly with his eyes closed, he shifted his gaze over his shoulder, looking at Harry. She eyed the detective slowly, then stood up, whispered something to the doctor, wished them good bye and walked out of the room, taking her perplexed mother with her. 

John opened his eyes, looking closely at Sherlock, his eyes soft and warm and the detective melted at the sight.   
“I'm sorry... for this. I love you” John whispered and leaned forward to wrap his hands around Sherlock's middle, burying his face in the detective's soft pajama. Sherlock heard a strange, squeaked sound coming from John's uncle and snapped his head in his direction. But he found the spot empty, only a fast disappearing shadow was present. Sherlock smiled and fumbled for his phone lying on the side table. He called for a cab. They wouldn't stay there any second more than necessary. 

Half an hour later they were both sitting on the backseat of a cab, John leaning against Sherlock's chest, one hand draped over the detective thighs.   
“John?” Sherlock asked. After seeing everything, he was curious only about one thing.   
“Mhm?”  
“What did Harry tell you?” He looked at his lapful of army doctor.   
“She wanted to be invited for the ceremony...” The detective's eyebrows knitted together.  
“What ceremony?” At that John smiled gently. He raised himself and straightened a little. He looked at the detective, took one of Sherlock's hands in both of his and pressed it to his chest.   
“I know it's not supposed to look like this, that it had been a difficult time, but I had been thinking about it for a long time. I love you Sherlock, and I cannot imagine the life without you... and I'd like to ask...” his voice trembled a little, but his eyes were bright.  
“John?” The detective raised one elegant eyebrow and looked at him. 

“Will you marry me?” John said in a low voice, eyes lowered to look at their joined hands as soon, as he spoke the words.  
“John...” Sherlock touched his chin and gently lifted it, making John look into his eyes again. 

“Yes. Yes I will” he grinned broadly and leaned forward to place a soft kiss to the doctor's lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter this work is finished. Thank you for being with me and for reading, commenting and kudoing! See you next time :)


End file.
